Coven
by Elesem
Summary: Take a time machine back to season one. Sam's normal nightmares bite, but the ones he's plagued with lately eat him alive. Looking for a good night's sleep, the boys follow clues in John's journal to the Rockies and into witch trouble.
1. Chapter 1, Sam's Dream

Coven

Disclaimer: Inspired by CW's Supernatural. Don't own the Winchesters, their back story etc. etc.

AN:

It's been almost three years since I posted Coven. I've been working hard on an original novel, but just for fun lately, late at night, over a glass of wine, I tweak a chapter or two. Hopefully, Coven improves as I go along. Even after all this time, your comments are appreciated. -El 2011

**Prologue: Only a dream...**

If not for the burn deep in his thighs and calves, he wouldn't feel his legs at all. He trudges through snow, hands and feet aching with cold. He's compelled against his better judgment, against his will toward the things in the tree.

Clouds part, he hesitates, blinking. A sense of dread chills him deeper than the frigid wind.

_Too big to be birds_, he thinks blearily.

_Maybe cloth snagged in the thorns?_ His imagination churns looking for any mundane possibility.

He stumbles on. The jagged roof of a stone building comes into view. It's sunken in a dark depression, untouched by the moonglow illuminating the rest of the landscape.

_How the hell did I get out here?_

Ten feet from the tree, dread tightens his belly. He falters. Not birds perched on the branches. _It's bodies. Human bodies!_

_Stop! God,__ just turn around!_

Five feet away.

Nooses around the necks of the still figures make his throat tighten. Blackened faces sag like melted wax, skin wrinkled and frozen. He lurches toward the lowest body whispering, "Don't, don't" on each ragged breath.

Its eyes fly open; the mouth stretches in a vicious snarl. The body twists on the rope. Icy hands grip his shoulders.

He screams…

**Chapter 1**

Sam woke lunging from the bed. The scream that had started in the nightmare trickled out as a whimper. Heart racing, his eyes darted around the room.

Cheap floral bedspread.

Cigarette burns on mud brown carpet.

Sun slanting in through dusty slats... another motel room.

The smell of cold pizza and mildew brought his heart rate down. He released his death grip on the bedspread.

Sam pulled himself up. Their father's leather bound journal and papers were strewn across the battered motel desk.

Dean's leonine frame molded to the rickety chair he slouched in, but his relaxed pose didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's the third one this week," he said quietly. "Is it Jess?"

"No," Sam said, hoping that would end the conversation. He scrubbed at his face and ran his hands through dark tangled hair. "Man, is it cold in here?"

Dean reached for the back of the room's second chair and tossed Sam his worn, gray sweatshirt, the words "Stanford Athletic Dept" barely visible across the chest.

Sam wearily pulled it on. He winced as an ache shot through his shoulders where the dead man's hands had…_Damn, it was just a dream!_

"Tell me," Dean insisted, sick of trying to pretend he didn't see the circles under his brother's eyes darken by the hour.

"It's nothing." Sam said, hoping it was true.

Sam's _other_ dreams or visions, he didn't know what to call them, started a couple months ago. He'd just graduated from Stanford. After eighteen years in the Twilight Zone with his father and brother, he'd established a normal, safe existence for himself living with an incredible woman.

Then the dreams started, Jess died and the rest had fallen apart.

But that was _those_ dreams.

Dean stood quickly and nearly tipped the chair over. He wanted to fix this; it's what he did. He fought to keep his voice even, "Look, you're having a little _denial_ trouble, Sammy."

Sam frowned. "Don't call me Sammy."

Dean leaned toward him over the bed, "Big 'D', DENIAL! Let's _accept_ that you're getting messages from the great beyond." He waved his hands dramatically at the ceiling. "Or you're cursed. Whatever! Let's assume that these nightmares are popping into your head for a reason. You can't ignore them. You wake up screaming every night so I sure as hell can't ignore them!" Dean caught and held Sam's eyes. He'd gotten used to the haunted anger in them since Jessica. It was the fear and uncertainty in them now that made him back off.

_God, he's really freaked_. Dean sighed and called up a little more patience. "Humor me. Please."

Sam tried to muster up another round of the "big D". He didn't have time for self pity; stupid, unprofitable _why me's_ and _what if's, _but this morning shoulders aching, eyes burning, he felt he deserved a good wallow. He glanced up at his brother. Half formed arguments died on his lips. He huffed out a breath in defeat.

"Fine, but I'm telling you, this is different from the others."

"_Fine,_ just lay it out." Dean dropped into his chair and molded himself into a comfortable position again.

Sam reluctantly let his thoughts return to the nightmare. He drew a shaky breath. "It's cold, night. Moonlight's reflecting off about a foot of snow. I'm trudging through the stuff, no gear." He hesitated, shying away from the image of the things in the tree. "I come to an old stone building…a church or a school maybe. It's too dark to see."

Dean raised his eyebrows, waiting.

"There's a tree on top of this hill in front of the building. Three…" Sam struggled for the right word. "…things are hanging from it. At first I think they might be big, black birds perched up there, but when I get closer I see that they're people...hanging."

Dean tipped his head and mimed tightening a noose around his neck.

"Yeah. Suddenly I'm right there next to the lowest one and it…" Sam stopped; swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Wakes up?" Dean supplied quietly.

"Yeah," he said rubbing one shoulder, "and he's not happy."

"Then _you_ wake up in a cold sweat. I'm familiar with that part."

"Right."

The brothers sat quietly. Sam was surprised to find that getting the dream out of his head and hung out to air between them in the dingy motel room _did_ help. After three years, he had to admit, it was good to be back with Dean.

"Ok. Do you have any idea where you are in the dream? Any details that could tell us anything?"

Sam raked his fingers through sweaty hair, "There's a lot of snow. Could be mountains. The terrain is pretty steep."

"Mountains, huh? That's somethin'." Dean turned back to the desk and their father's journal. "Dad's got a couple of entries in Colorado or Wyoming…somewhere in the Rockies." He turned pages thoughtfully; searching for the entries he remembered. Their father's well-worn leather journal was full of hastily scribbled notes, counter-measures against hundreds of things that go bump in the night. Strapped closed, it could barely hold twenty years of incidents, sightings, and disappearances.

Dean recognized an entry. "Here we go. I ran across this the other night. You remember, oh, five or six years ago, Dad spent a week, maybe more in Colorado Springs?" He shifted the book to the edge of the desk.

Sam moved down to sit on the end of the bed for a better view, "Uh, barely. At least I don't remember being debriefed about whatever happened there."

"Yeah, me neither. Listen to this," Dean read from a newspaper clipping carefully folded and taped into the book. "Ritual Human Sacrifice in Colorado Springs, Police rout a witches' coven calling itself the Order of the Nine suspected in the deaths and disappearances of several people over the past decade in Colorado Springs." Dean pounded a fist on the desk. "Come on! Dad was checkin' out something this big, came home, and we didn't get a crash course on witch burning?"

"Doesn't sound right," Sam agreed edging closer. He dragged the gaudy floral bed spread with him and wrapped it around his shoulders trying to beat the bone deep chills still making him shiver.

Dean skimmed the article, "Let's see… arresting officers…ya-duh, ya-duh, ya-duh…They caught six coven members in an abandoned church in downtown Colorado Springs...Stopped 'em right in the middle of a ritual. The three leaders were still at large, as of …" He checked the date of the newspaper, "Oct. 31st 2000. Wild Halloween party." He paused. "You said three dead guys in the tree, right?"

"Yeah, but not so dead." Sam reached for the journal. "Let me see that."

Dean passed him the book and watched his brother's face as he read. The circles under Sam's eyes _had_ deepened. His shoulders under the motel bedspread bowed as if gravity around him was a little heavier than everywhere else. His cheeks look hollowed out, his skin even more pale than usual. A stubble of dark brown beard smudged his jaw line.

Dean frowned, _I might as well start clucking. I'm turning into a hopeless mother hen._

But Dean could count the things he considered essential to his existence on one hand. His dad and Sam were the first two. He'd been hunting for too long; knew too well what could happen out there to take anyone he cared about for granted. He fought dueling urges: first to sweep Sam into a hug and hold on to him till the nightmares went away, second, to throw his little brother across the room and beat that psychic crap out of him once and for all. Tough choice.

"According to this article, the members of the coven were into some pretty twisted stuff," Sam said, interrupting Dean before he could make up his mind. "I can't figure out why he didn't drill us on every detail of the job, especially if he never caught up with the last three." Sam pointed to a line in the journal, "Dad has three names written here, 'Nysrogh, Vetis, Ornias.'"

"Don't know 'em. Sound demonic though." Dean leaned in to read the unfamiliar words. He worked through the names; getting a feel for the odd sound of each one and immediately regretted the effort. They gave him the same dirty, repulsive feeling he got from hearing some jerk use the "N" word.

"Then look at this," Sam said. He pushed the book toward his brother pointing to the words written below the paragraph and underlined twice in their father's jagged script.

_Not Sam._

"Huh," Dean huffed, eyebrows raised. He looked at his brother who shrugged.

"No idea."

Again they sat in silence considering everything revealed in notebook and nightmare; attempting to fit the pieces into some logical pattern.

"Aaaaah." Dean stood and stretched muscles gone stiff first from keeping watch over Sam's sleep then from sitting bent over the book. "Maybe it's not even you." He raised his arms arching his back with a groan. "But, we're only, maybe, three hundred miles from Colorado Springs. We have to check this out."

"Yeah," Sam sighed resignedly. "But Dean, this really feels different. Like the dream isn't right. Isn't normal."

Dean barked out a laugh, and then turned incredulous eyes on his brother, "Normal? Sam, come on…" Dean spread his arms and invited Sam to look around the room; around their lives and show him where the 'normal' part was.

"Ok, ok," Sam muttered, reluctantly allowing a grin as he rose from the bed. "Let's get out of here."

By the time they'd packed up and restocked a few essentials it was past noon. Sam winced as Dean pulled out the credit card to pay their hotel bill. The name on this one was Zhou Long Chin. Sam shook his head when the kid at the desk took the card without a blink.

Their dad had come up with this credit card scam years ago when his savings had run out and he wasn't willing to get a job that would take him away from his sons and his obsession. He'd spent the last of their cash on a list; five hundred social security numbers of the recently dead, men only, in a politically correct mix of ethnicities. John filled out credit card applications for the deceased, one or two at a time, using the address of a vacant lot in Kansas City as the applicant's home, but asking the credit card companies to send correspondence to a post office box.

Christmas came two or three times a year when they'd make a run to KC and see which applications had hit pay dirt. Dad would activate the accounts, immediately send a change of address notice, this one completely bogus so the bills went to limbo, and proceed to ruin the dead guys' credit ratings.

They got a better than 50 percent return on the applications and each card lasted about eight months before the companies cut them off. As kids they'd kept stats on which names and credit card companies landed the most cards, and who scored the highest starting credit limits. Other kids kept track of their favorite baseball players.

As far as Sam knew, they still hadn't used up all the names on that first list, though it looked like they'd gotten down to the dicier ones. _Zhou Long Chin, and not a blink. _He shook his head again.

They'd come to Hays, Kansas to check out a ghost story near the Fort Hays Museum. This museum, a double wide trailer permanently parked in the shade by a little creek in the oldest part of town, housed the most bizarrely eerie collection of artifacts the boys had ever seen. Everything from dusty old shrunken heads, real as far as they could tell, to ominously stained arrow heads and stuffed tarantulas, lay crammed into crowded glass cases in the tiny building.

The ghost had turned out to be a couple of amateur special-effects artists making a little money off of gullible tourists. The boys gave them a few pointers to improve the authenticity of their efforts then left them to their enterprise.

With the sun high, nothing but miles of flatland to cover and Dean driving, they'd make nearly supernatural speed toward the Colorado border.

Sam fought to stay awake, but the Impala's leather bucket seats cradled his backside way too comfortably. For years one of his favorite things in the world had been to read a book till he drifted off to sleep in the car.

He knew exactly when the thought of drifting off for an hour had begun to make his palms sweat. Damn, he was so tired, and tired of it.

"Sam…Sam."

Sam woke with a gasp and grabbed for the hand gripping his shoulder. He automatically jabbed a thumb against a pressure point in the wrist and twisted.

"Ow! Ow! Sam, wake up!" Dean's voice, solid and annoyed drew him fully awake.

Dean shook out his hand and said through clenched teeth, "The phone's in your pocket." Sam looked at him confused then heard the insistent ringing coming from the right pocket of the canvas jacket that Dean must have put over him while he slept.

"Oh man. Sorry." He fumbled for a moment. The phone was caught under the seatbelt. Still groggy and feeling like an idiot he finally jerked it free and flipped it open.

"Hello," Sam croaked.

A female voice said, "Hello. Is this Dean?"

"No," he scrubbed at his face, willing coherence into his brain, "This is Sam, I'm Dean's brother."

"Oh, Sam. Hi, I'm Abby Graham." She paused. Sam waited. "Uhm. I'm actually looking for your dad. I called him and got the message to try Dean's number. He's not with you is he, your dad, I mean?"

"Uh no." Sam's head cleared significantly at the mention of his father, "We're looking for him too actually. Is there anything we can do for you?"

"Your dad's missing?"

"Yeah, kind of."

There was a short silence. "Well, I worked with him a few years ago, ya know, in Colorado Springs and things are getting a little hairy here again. I just needed some advice."

"Ms. Graham we're…" he covered the phone and whispered, "Where are we?"

"Just went through Limon," Dean answered. "What's up?" Sam went back to the phone waving a hand at his brother to wait.

"We just went through Limon. We'll be in Colorado Springs in…" he turned to Dean for the answer and Dean supplied it, "…about an hour and a half. We could meet you…"

"What?" she interrupted, alarm in her voice.

Sam looked sideways at Dean. "Yeah." He sat up straighter. "It's kind of a long story, but we have something to check out. We're on the road now so…"

"No!" She said so loudly he jerked the phone away from his ear.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, no! Why in the world would you….Don't come here!"

What the hell was up with this woman? "Look, we're almost…"

"No, _you_ look. Don't be stupid. Just turn around!" The line went dead.

"And that's an order," Sam finished for her. Her words, so much like what he told himself in his nightmare, raised the hairs on the back of his neck. "She hung up."

"She who?"

"She said her name was Abby Graham. Dean, she knew Dad. I think she's mixed up in this coven thing."

"Did she say that?"

"Not in so many words, but man, this can't be a coincidence. She was calling from Colorado Springs."

"What exactly did she say?"

"She said …" He stopped himself, "no, she _ordered_ us to turn around."

"What? Who the hell…"

"She said things were heating up there and she needed Dad's advice. When I told her we were nearly there, she went drill sergeant on me and hung up."

They sat in silence as their thoughts churned. "Well," Dean finally said, "I'm really looking forward to meeting Ms. Graham."

"Definitely," Sam agreed.

Dean took the Impala up to mach speed.


	2. Chapter 2, Abigail Graham

**Chapter 2**

From a hundred miles east of Limon Colorado, the Rocky Mountains smudged the horizon, a jagged blue ripple barely discernable from a distant line of thunder clouds. In the Arapahoe basin, thier snowy peaks dominated the landscape. Near Denver, they finally crowded out the sky completely in the view framed in the boys' side window.

Sam and Dean missed it all. Their gaze took in only a tunnel of asphalt, Quik Stop gas stations, and frustratingly bottlenecked traffic. They left Interstate 70 to avoid the northerly jog into Denver that would take them two hundred miles out of their way. Now they seethed, AC/DC blaring from the tape player, as they slowed to a crawl in every bedroom community along their "shortcut".

According to the phone book, Abigail Graham lived on the outskirts of Colorado Springs, off Rampart Range Road in the borderland between city limits and national forest. The increasingly pastoral scenery should have lowered the boys' blood pressures, but after half an hour of wandering, they stewed and snipped at each other worried that they'd already missed her house. Finally, Dean slammed on the breaks and they parked across the street from the address they'd hastily scrawled on a napkin.

The squeak and slam of their car doors made them wince. The silence hit them, or what the urban brain interprets as silence; wind, bird calls, crickets and the far away drone of the highway. The scents of pine and wood smoke permeated in the air.

For the first time they noticed how close they were to the range. The mountains towered in the west totally obliterating the horizon with range upon range of craggy snow covered peaks, deep blue turning to black as the sun disappeared behind them.

Dean looked up and up and swallowed. He inhaled a long, slow breath of the first fresh air he'd smelled in days. On the exhale a pressure valve opened and the road rage flowed out leaving only mild annoyance and curiosity behind. He glanced over the mirror-black of the car roof at Sam.

"I'd forgotten…this." He waved his arm, taking in the range, the aspen, the birds, the air. "The Rockies are awesome. And I don't mean that in a valley girl kind of way."

"I know. Real awe," Sam murmured.

"Yeah." Dean took one more deep sniff. "Ready?"

Sam nodded. They walked across the street much more circumspectly than they would have moments ago.

A picket fence tangled with wild roses, and raspberry brambles already gone dormant for the winter, surrounded the house. The tiny yard enclosed in the fence was neatly divided into beds along a rocky path to the front porch. Labels informed visitors of the identities of clumps of withering plants in various stages of winter die off: angelica, horehound, nettle and burdock, herbs and flowers that next spring would fill the now sleeping space with life. The labels stood in rows like cheerful little headstones in a cemetery where the dear departed were gone but not forgotten and were in fact, expected back real soon. A huge stone chimney rose on one side of the little house giving it an imperturbable weight. Balancing the chimney, on the back corner of the house there loomed a three story tall juniper tree.

The boys stepped onto the wide front porch. Dean reached for the brass door knocker and tapped. As he pulled his hand back he noticed that along the elegant curve of the knocker a pattern of runes and pentagrams was etched. Dean slapped Sam on the chest with the back of his hand. "She's a witch," he said.

Sam leaned in to get a better look. "Wicca, probably." He turned back to the yard. He found something oddly appealing about all the little mounds of dead plants. "Some of these herbs are pretty rare. She might be a healer, maybe some kind of shaman."

"Yeah, and maybe she's into ritual sacrifice."

"No, couldn't be, not if she's Wicca." That just didn't fit the warm, fuzzy feeling Sam was getting from this porch. Oddly, he hadn't felt this…safe, in days.

"Wicca, witcha, what's the difference? She…"

"Hello there," a gravelly voice interrupted their discussion.

Dean turned to see an elderly man standing outside the fence almost in the road. He looked out of place at the curb dressed in an old fashioned business man's hat and an expensive looking black overcoat. Dean glanced back at Sam then stepped off the porch. "Hello."

"Are you boys looking for Abigail?" the old man asked in a rough, but cultured voice.

"Yes, we are." Dean donned his famous 90210 smile, guaranteed to set a senior citizen at ease. "But she doesn't seem to be home."

"No, she wouldn't be, not yet. She's a ranger up at the Pike National Forest. She works till dark most days," the man said.

As they reached the fence Sam leaned on the gate expecting the man to come closer to talk, but he stuck to his spot by the curb. The boys exchanged a glance. "It won't be dark for a couple of hours," Sam said. "Do you know where we could find her?"

"No trouble, I hope?" the elderly man asked.

"No, no," they both reassured him. Dean produced another of his practiced smiles and proceeded to lie though his teeth. "We're only in town for a little while. We'd sure hate to miss seeing her. She's an old friend of the family."

"Ah, well. In that case, you're very likely to find her at the ranger station at the entrance to the park."

"Oh. Great!" Dean kept the wattage up on his smile, "Could you give us directions?"

"Certainly, continue on out of town on this road. The national forest starts about five miles up. You'll see a sign. About a quarter mile beyond that is the ranger station."

"Thanks." Sam opened the gate. "We appreciate your help."

The gate had barely swung closed behind them when they found their path to the car blocked. The elderly gentleman stood directly in front of Dean, his right hand outstretched.

"My name is John Smith," he said and gazed intently into Dean's face. Dean rocked back a step, his best smile dimmed, but he took the old man's hand.

"I'm Dean and this is my brother, Sam." He found his hand trapped in a raptor like grip. _Whoa! Frail old man? NOT. _He was looking _up_ an inch or two into eyes that had been in shadow under the brim of the hat. They… burned, with something darkly disturbing that Dean had no interest in exploring. With an effort, he gave his hand a twist against the old man's thumb and reclaimed it then dropped it behind his back to flex some warmth back into his fingers.

The old man turned his eager gaze and extended his hand to Sam. Sam, glancing at his brother's efforts to defrost his fingers, tucked his hands in his pockets and made a show of shivering with the cold. "Uh, it was nice to meet you, but we'd better get going."

"Right, thanks again," Dean mumbled as they both stepped backward toward the car.

Skin crawling, Dean slammed the door and sat trying to figure out his reaction, or over- reaction to the old man.

"You all right?" Sam asked.

"Yeah…yeah." He started the car. "Guy just had really cold hands."

Driving just five miles up into the mountains dropped the temperature from pleasantly cool to butt-nipping cold. The boys shrugged deep into their jackets as they crossed the parking lot to the Pike National Forest ranger station.

The building had the rustic, but ultra efficient look of log cabins built in the last decade. Modern double paned windows kept the heat in. They were glad for the warmth as they passed into the lobby.

The large room did double duty as information center and souvenir shop. A topographical map of the park's extensive trail system covered the wall behind a welcome desk. Sam noticed several tiny red and white striped flags pinned to the map that marked trails already closed to snow in the higher elevations. A quick scan of the room told them they were the only customers this late in the day.

Dean approached the counter. "Hi. We're looking for Abby Graham. Her neighbor said that we might be able to find her here."

A trim young ranger in crisply pleated dark brown pants and tan forestry shirt bounced up from the desk and bounded to the counter with puppy-like enthusiasm. Dean was sure if he'd had a tail he would've wagged it. "Abby? Sure, she came in from patrol about an hour ago. I think she's still doing some paperwork. I'll go get her."

_Ranger Friendly, _as Dean decided to think of him_, _strode purposefully back to the inner offices of the station. Dean turned to Sam with eyebrows raised, "…out on _patrol_?" Sam suppressed a grin and strolled over to pull a map from the rack on the wall.

Dean leaned his back against the counter and lazily surveyed the other offerings of the souvenir shop. A small kiosk with a sign inviting him to "Discover the Power of Crystals" caught his eye. He ambled over. The sign claimed that the crystals; some mounted, sparkling, on rings, others hanging like charms from bracelets or necklaces, each had unique powers. On the crystals' decorative little cards were explanations for their uses. He gave an amused sniff as he fingered one claiming to give the wearer the ability to discern truth from lies. _Let 'em try,_ he smirked.

"So, Ms. Graham is a ranger by day and a witch by night," Dean said.

Sam automatically corrected him, "Follower of Wicca by night."

"Whatever."

The floor creaked behind them. "Witch is fine with me, but it's Ranger Graham."

They both turned at the sound of the woman's voice and met a formidable glare. Abby Graham strode around to the front of the counter. She was their age, attractive in a stormy kind of way. The braid of dark hair that ended just below her shoulders probably started the morning neat and controlled, but a day outdoors had freed a halo of curls that stood out against the pale skin of her face and neck. She was about five-foot-six and even in her boxy brown ranger uniform they could see that she had a slender, athletic body; a body that Dean might have enjoyed speculating about further if she hadn't opened her mouth.

"I told you two to turn around," she said with the same annoying command in her tone that Sam remembered from the phone.

Dean shifted to face her, the anger that had melted in the face of awe back at the woman's house, flared up again. "Look, _Ranger_ Graham, we're just looking for a little information here."

She jerked her chin up and hissed, "I'd think you already had plenty of information. Just turn around and get out of here."

Dean opened his hands and put a bewildered look on his face. "I'm totally confused here. What–makes-you-think-we'd-take-orders-from-you?"

"If not from me, then from your father," Ranger Graham spat. "Do you always ignore _his_ orders when he's not around?"

Dean opened his mouth and closed it again with a snap. He stood speechless staring at the obviously addled woman in front of him. "What the hell are you talking about?" he finally managed.

Sensing her advantage, her dark eyes flashed as she lowered her voice and asked fiercely, "How could you bring Sam here?"

_Bring me here? _Sam felt a tight, little knot start in his chest._ What orders from Dad? _The knot pulled tighter and he clenched a fist. _Damn it, that's it!_

Sam snarled, "First of all, _Sam _is standing right here. Second, nobody _brought_ me. And third, we don't take orders from anybody, including our father."

Dean's eyes widened at this, but he recovered his game face quickly.

Sam's voice went tighter. "How do you even know our father?"

Abby broke off her glare at Dean and turned to Sam. "How do I know him..." she began, then stopped, and stared at Sam now radiating hostility.

The muddled look on the boys' faces exactly mirrored hers.

"Wait, wait," she said shaking her head and backing up a step. "Your father is John Winchester, right? And you're Sam and Dean?"

"Last time we checked." Dean crossed his arms over his chest, his scowl fading. Sam's little outburst had taken the wind out of his sails. Besides, his curiosity was getting the better of him. "And you _are_ Abigail Graham, the witch? You called my cell phone a couple hours ago?"

"Yeah, that's me," she said, confusion clear in her voice. "How could you two not know…?"

At that moment, Ranger Friendly stepped through the office door. The first thing he saw was Sam's face. His smile wilted. Dean could swear his ears drooped.

"Abby, is everything O.K. out here?"

Abby looked from Sam to Dean, "Yes, Henry. Everything's fine. We just seem to be having a bit of a misunderstanding."

She turned back to the brothers. "We need to have a talk."

"Ya think, Ranger Graham?" Sam spat.

"Sam, chill," Dean warned.

Sam threw an angry glance at Dean then crossed his arms over his chest making a visible effort to rein himself in.

Not taking her eyes off of Sam, Abby asked "Henry, would you mind locking up the shop tonight?"

"No." The ranger leaned in to Abby's ear lowering his voice. "Not if you're sure you're all right."

"I'm sure." But, she wasn't actually. Curiosity had hold of her and she was determined to get some answers before she kicked the Winchesters out of town. "These are old friends of mine," she said, then whispered to Henry, "They just don't seem to know it." She smiled at Henry's mystified look and patted his shoulder. She drew in a deep breath and tried to let go of her doubts and irritation with the exhale. Abby stepped slowly toward Sam and Dean. "First, call me Abby." She grimaced. "Ranger Graham sounds…pretentious."

"Nahh," Dean wore a smug little grin.

"Look, we got off on the wrong foot." She looked down frowning as she ground the heel of her boot into the wood plank floorboards. John had obviously told them nothing about her. That stung a lot more than she would have thought, but it was hardly their fault. _Damn it, this is such a mess! Why would they come here now?_

She could sense their mistrust. She carried some of her own, but she had ways of putting that to rest back home. And despite it being totally wrong for them to be here, she couldn't help a little thrill. Finally, the Winchester boys were here! She'd been hearing about these two since she was a teenager. Abby had a million questions. They certainly weren't going to get any answers standing here in front of Henry. She came to a decision.

"Would you two like to join me for dinner? I can't promise you five stars, but it's home cooking."

Attempting to lighten the mood, Henry chimed in a bit too zealously, "She's a great cook._ I_ never turn down her invitations."

Abby smiled gratefully at her partner. "Henry you think anything you don't eat out of a box is fine dining."

Henry grinned and actually blushed. The tension in the room loosened just a bit.

Abby turned to the other two young men who still looked skeptical. "Just dinner. I promise no hocus-pocus on the menu. Come on, you must have as many questions as I do. What do you say?"

The decision was made with a glance and a curt nod from Sam.

Dean flipped on his hundred watt smile again and said, "Sure, dinner would be terrific! I'm starved."


	3. Chapter 3, John's secrets

**Chapter 3**

The boys pulled up to the curb seconds after Abby. They got out, cringing again at the squeak of the car doors, and stood awkwardly in the street.

"So, you guys have already been here?" their hostess asked as she approached.

"Yeah, we looked you up in the phone book." Sam hunched his shoulders and tried to curl his fists into the sleeves of his way-too-light jacket.

Dean stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets.

"So I guess you went on up to the door?" She asked.

"To knock on it, yeah." Dean clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. The cold was cracking the firm hold he'd decided to take on his sarcasm. "Listen this mountain air is as refreshing as all get out, but…"

"Oh sure, let's go in." Abby crossed to the gate and went in ahead of them. She walked quickly to the porch then turned and watched them make their way through her sleeping herb garden. Apparently satisfied about something, her smile widened as they stepped onto the porch. "Well done," she muttered under her breath.

Dean had a vague feeling they'd just passed a test.

Abby unlocked her door, "Please come in."

As Dean stepped across the threshold behind Sam, blessed warmth hit him. He straightened out of his turtled position in the collar of his leather coat then took a deep breath. The smells of baking bread, herbs and meaty sauce made him go weak in the knees. He bumped into Sam in the dark. Abby flipped on a light.

"Wow," Sam said quietly, eyes closed, taking in long, slow inhales through his nose. Dean's stomach growled agreement.

Abby bustled around the room hanging up her coat, turning on lamps and lighting candles all in quick flowing order born of long habit. "Hang your jackets on the pegs there by the door."

Gaze moving in and out of the pools of light her circuit created, the boys took in the growing impression of rich, warm colors and soft textures that filled Abby's living room. Wood plank floors gave off a buttery glow where they peeked from under the swirling florals and complex geometrics of many colorful rugs. A stone fireplace with wide, cluttered mantle faced two over-stuffed chairs and an inviting, deep-green leather sofa. Every chair sported at least one soft afghan and each of the many little wooden tables tucked handily next to chairs held a book, candle or bundle of dried herbs, some had all three.

"Do you have a roommate?" Dean asked.

"No, just me," Abby stopped her circuit at the base of a wooden staircase.

"Then who's cooking dinner? Oh, or maybe it's magic." Dean wiggled his fingers in a caricatured spell casting.

"Yeah, that's it, Dean," Abby said cocking an eyebrow at him. "I put a spell on my magic crock pot and my magic bread machine this morning before I left for work."

She showed him her teeth. "I'm going to go change. Would one of you guys light a fire? There's kindling in the basket there. Oh, and there's beer and wine in the kitchen, soft drinks too. Just make yourselves at home. I'll be right back." She trotted down the hall beside the stairs.

They looked at each other; puzzled little smiles on their faces.

"I guess I'll make the fire," Sam volunteered.

"You remember how, boy scout?"

"I think I can handle it. How 'bout you pour me a glass of wine; red if she's got it."

"Comin' right up."

There was no television in evidence, but on his way across the living room, Dean spotted a stereo system tucked into a wooden cabinet. She had a turntable. His heart skipped a beat. Dean was a slave to classic rock, the serious stuff, but he loved it best on the rare occasions when he got to listen to it roaring off spinning vinyl.

His eyes fell greedily on two long fruit crates filled with albums. What would she listen to? He longed to flip through her collection, but his stomach vetoed anything other than the most direct route to the rich, meaty scent he was following. He flicked on the turntable and dropped the needle. As he followed his nose into the kitchen, the close harmonies of Simon and Garfunkel filled the room. He could deal with that.

Dean found the crock pot and bent over it lifting the lid. He could almost take a bite of the puff of steam rising from the pot.

Dean looked around. Abby's kitchen was old; not in a dusty, neglected kind of way, but in a living museum kind of way. The pine cabinets gave off the same buttery glow as the floors in the living room. A formidable looking old stove, resplendent in buttercup yellow porcelain and stainless steel, stood on sturdy legs and had more doors and big clunky knobs on the front than he could figure out a use for. He spotted the bread machine and fought the urge to open it and take a whiff. He had some vague notion that bread making was delicate business and best left undisturbed.

Dean found the glasses and corkscrew and opened a bottle of red wine from a wooden wine rack on the counter. He poured a glass for Sam then pulled a beer from the fridge for himself. _Yeah, the hostess with the mostest._ _This house is cozy on steroids! _

"Is it just me or is this place abnormally homey?" he called to Sam through the wide kitchen doorway.

Sam chuckled as he carefully piled a generous bundle of kindling on the fireplace grate then laid three oak logs on top of that and crumpled newspaper underneath. He checked that the flue was open then found matches on the mantle and quickly set the newspaper alight.

On top of the wide, wood mantle was an organized clutter of intriguing things. Sam got caught up in the gallery of photographs. In one picture, a much younger Abby stood in a cap and gown squeezed between a proudly smiling elderly couple. It must have been summer; the yard was a riot of plants and flowers. His gaze moved to the next photo and froze. Sam picked it up.

His dad looked out at him; arm around Abby, her head resting on his shoulder. They looked tired, but happy to be sharing that moment with the photographer. Sam squelched a surge of envy for the easy familiarity between them. He hadn't felt that comfortable with his dad in years; maybe never.

"Dean, look at this," Sam said quietly.

Dean set the glass of wine on a low wooden table and stared at the image. "Whoa, how weird is that?"

"It is weird, isn't it?" Abby's voice made them both turn. She knew immediately which photo had their attention. "Your dad's told me so much about you guys, I feel like I've known you forever." She stopped, alarmed by the looks on their faces.

_She is a witch. She's put on some kind of glamour, _Dean thought. Abby'd unleashed her dark hair, weaving the sides back off her face, but leaving the back to fall in a riot of shiny curls. A soft sweater the color of pine needles followed the subtle curves of her body. Her skirt was a full, colorful patchwork ending below her knees where a pair of dark leather moccasins laced down to her feet. She was simply, radiantly beautiful and she wasn't even trying. Neither of the boys spoke.

Abby looked down and checked her clothes. She felt her cheeks flush. "What? Did you think I lived in that uniform?"

Jaws snapped shut, throats were cleared, feet shuffled and the spell was broken.

"Obviously not." Sam recovered first. He took the picture from Dean's hand, passed it to Abby.

Her brow smoothed as she looked at it and smiled fondly. "This was taken about 6 years ago; shortly after your dad saved my life."

_This just gets deeper and deeper,_ Dean thought. _Who is this woman?_

She smiled. "Let's eat while we're talking. I don't know about you guys, but I'm starved."

Sam thought about arguing for all of five seconds then the smell of dinner overwhelmed his curiosity.

Abby served them each a bowl of chunky venison stew and a thick slice of homemade bread. A home-cooked meal after weeks of eating nothing that didn't come in a crinkly, plastic bag overwhelmed their ability to make anything more than barely polite conversation. Abby did most of the talking.

"When I met your dad, I'd been living here with my grandparents for a year or so. My folks were killed in a fire in Kansas City." Both boys' heads swung up. She could see their minds drawing connections that weren't there. "Nothing supernatural," she said. "Just ordinary, faulty wiring."

Dean's shoulders relaxed and he said, "I'm sorry."

Abby nodded and pushed the old, familiar grief aside. "Thanks. I wasn't home that night. I came back from a sleepover the next morning to…hell; fire trucks, ambulances, chaos. I don't remember much except the smell of smoke. It clung to me for weeks."

"Yeah, I remember." Dean looked up; their eyes met for a moment and she knew that he did remember. John said that Dean was about four when his mom was killed and their home burned.

To their astonishment, their dad had been coming to Abby's grandparents' place for years. And thanks to him, Abby remembered more about Sam and Dean's childhoods than they did. By the time the last hunk of bread sopped up the last drop of stew, she had them laughing at stories from their own elementary school days.

Abby loved finally sitting between the two of them. For her, this was a reunion not an introduction. Yet she had to admit, they were different than she'd imagined them all these years.

Soft spoken, intelligent Sam wasn't the rebellious little brother, or at least not _just_ the rebellious little brother John had drawn for her. He wasn't little for one thing, definitely not the gawky 15 year old she always pictured in her mind!

And Dean…Dean was something different altogether. She'd expected the bad-boy attitude. His broad, square shoulders and lean, muscular build were like his dad's, but the grace in the careless way he moved was all his own. She knew both of the boys could handle themselves in a fight. John had hammered them into warriors. But there was softness in Dean; vulnerability under all the bravado that she found incredibly interesting.

And the brothers loved each other fiercely.

When she opened her Sight and took a peek, their auras, though very distinctive, blended and merged when they were close like now. It linked them; made them stronger than they could be alone. She envied them.

Peeping Toms, especially on the astral plane, were never appreciated, she reminded herself, and closed her Sight. She shook off her musings and brought herself back to the table and reluctantly back to the conversation she knew she was going to have to start.

Dean saved her from having to be the one to wet-blanket the evening. "So, Dad saved your life?"

"Let's move to the comfy chairs by the fireplace for the rest of this, ok?" She stood and picked up her dinner plate. "Just stack the dishes in the sink. Does anybody besides me want to switch to herbal tea? The water's hot and since I grow the herbs myself, I can guarantee sweet dreams."

Sam doubted that anything could sweeten his dreams these days, but hot tea sounded good.

"That sounds like a good idea for Sam, and I'll take some as long as it's not gonna put me to sleep at the wheel?"

"Oh no, you'll be fine to drive."

Sam was too tired to put up much of protest against Dean's mother hen routine. A glare was all he could muster. "Yes please, tea sounds good."

Abby poured three steaming mugs of hot water then chose a few herbs from her many jars lined up on the counter.

"I'll be over by the fireplace."

"We'll be there in a sec." Dean's gaze lingered as she walked into the living room.

Sam brought his dishes to the sink then glanced back over his shoulder and said in a low voice, "So, what do you think?"

"Huh?"

"I said, what do you think about Abby?"

Dean dragged his attention back to the dishes. _She's incredible, funny, gorgeous…_ "She's interesting," he said blandly.

"Interesting?" Sam asked. "Who are you and what've you done with my brother?" He turned his head and found empty space. Dean was already walking into the living room. Realization dawned. "Yeah, you find her _interesting_ all right."

Good food, wine and sleep deprivation ganged-up on Sam's curiosity about Abby and their dad. His body felt warm and heavy, his mind pleasantly slow as he lowered himself onto the moss-green couch. He eyed its length wondering if it was long enough for him to stretch out on. Abby finished her "potions" and handed each of the boys their own custom brewed mugs of tea. Sam blew on the steaming liquid and took a sip, and then another. _Ohhh man, that's great._ The warmth of the crackling fire caressed his right cheek and soothed out the last of the kinks and jagged edges he'd grown in the past couple weeks.

Sam tugged his chin up with a jerk. Abby's image had begun to blur into the firelight. He glanced at Dean; turned impatiently away from that annoyingly concerned frown and concentrated on catching up with what Abby was saying.

"…he'd come to see Grams and Poppa for a professional consultation you might say, the first time we met."

"Your grandparents were hunters?"

"Retired, supposedly, by that time. Grams was a witch; a wise woman. People around here came to her for herbs and tinctures. She had a reputation for cooking up stuff that worked. Poppa did most of the actual hunting and Grams backed him up with protection charms, detection spells, counter curses, healing when he needed it. They took care of any nasties that came within about a fifty mile radius of here. They were an awesome team."

For a moment, missing them became a raw thing again. Abby deliberately turned her thoughts back to John and grinned up at the boys. "Oh, I had such a crush on your dad!"

Dean sputtered into his tea, "Our dad?"

"Oh yeah, he's such a hottie."

Sam didn't know whether to scowl or grin so he did both, it hurt. "Hottie is not a word I would ever associate with my father."

"I grew out of the crush…" Abby said, "Eventually." The boys groaned. "I hadn't been here more than a year when he showed up on our doorstep. Poppa'd been investigating the possibility of a demon's presence in our territory. He must have put the word out to the in-crowd about his suspicions, trying to get more eyes on the problem. Instead of making a phone call or writing an email, your dad..."

"Just showed up," Dean said.

Abby smiled. "Exactly. They spread their combined notes out on the table and stayed up hashing over everything for hours. By the time the sun came up they'd identified one extremely elusive coven."

"The Order of the Nine?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," She looked up sharply. "I'm confused. Your dad _did_ tell you about all this?"

"No, this is something we found in his journal," Dean said. "That's why we're here. There was a clipping on a sacrifice gone bad." Dean saw Abby's cheeks flush. He frowned. "Were you involved in all of that?"

"Yeah, I guess you could say I was involved." She looked up reluctantly, "I was the intended sacrifice."

"Whoa," they chorused. Sam's drowsiness disappeared. Dean pulled up out of his slouch. Their questions tumbled over each other.

"Wait, wait." Abby held up her hands. She'd expected to have to defend herself for pulling such a stupid stunt. That's exactly the reaction she'd gotten from John. But unlike Winchester senior, Winchesters junior were on the edge of their seats like geeks at a gamers' convention. _They are waaaay too into their work, _she thought and grinned. _But then so am I_.

She started again with a little more enthusiasm for the tale. "A few months after Poppa died I decided to keep up surveillance on the coven for him. Things went along fine, until I tried to go undercover and infiltrate them." She paused. "I was so…"

"Stupid?" Dean said.

Expertly raising one eyebrow at him, she said "I was going to say, young and naive, but stupid will do. It turned out, I'd been _their_ target for a very long time." She frowned down at her hands clenched in her lap. "A couple days before Halloween… I didn't come home. Grams called your dad. John knew I'd keep a journal. He found it and figured out they were…_breathe… _performing the ritual in St. Stephan's downtown."

"You o.k., Abby?"

The concern in Dean's voice set her teeth on edge_. Get a grip, Abby. Sam could be the one in the middle of this now. _She unclenched her fists and wiped her sweaty palms on the rug. Her face lit with the next memory.

"Just picture your dad charging into this dark, rat infested church, eyes wild, baseball bat in one hand and squeeze bottle of holy water in the other. And charging right next to him, my seventy-five-year-old Grams, grey hair streaming, eyes flashing. John knockin' heads. Grams throwing spells right and left."

"The whole coven was there?" Dean asked, a wolfish grin growing on his lips. "Nine of them against…"

Sam leaned forward. "Abby, you said you'd been their target for long time. What did you mean?" He'd felt like he was walking around with a bulls eye painted on his chest ever since these new nightmares started. "How did they choose you?"

Abby's smile faded. She swallowed and slowly turned to Sam. "They chose me for two reasons, first, revenge. My grandfather'd been a thorn in their side for years; poking around, showing up at their ritual sites. After his death, Grams kept up the pressure. The coven wanted to hit them where it would hurt the most."

"So they hit you," Dean said. "Makes sense."

She took a quick gulp of tea. "Yeah. And second…they were attracted to my gift."

"Gift?" Sam stared at her.

Abby really, really didn't want to tell them about this. Some people just didn't take it well. She took a deep breath. "I can read auras." - Ok, the blank look on Dean's face was a little anticlimactic. She frowned. "Not all the time. I have to consciously open my Sight." She watched for a reaction. - Still nothing. "Auras… the psychic energy that surrounds all of us. It's like a mood ring you wear over your entire body. I can see basically how you're feeling, what kind of a person you are… and I always know when someone's lying."

Dean choked, "Always?"

_Now he gets it. _"Always."

_Well crap!_ Dean thought.

"So," she continued quickly, "…the coven chose me so they could screw with my grandparents and because they target people with psychic abilities."

Dean turned sharply to Sam. "Well crap!"

"The three priests that got away... They're very bad news. When John cut me off of that altar…I was in pretty bad shape." Abby raised her eyes and happened to catch Dean's. The furious glint in them reminded her of his dad. "He brought me to Grams, and then took off after the priests. Whatever he did, it sent the three of them into deep hiding." The next memory made her belly clench. "John was furious that night." She looked at Sam. "But afterwards…I'd never seen him so scared."

"Scared? Of what?" Sam asked.

But Abby didn't need to answer his question. She could see the pieces clicking into place for him. She waited and watched.

Dean spoke. "Dad pissed the head honchos off, just like your grandfather did." He looked at his brother staring fixedly into the crackling fire. "And he has a kid with a gift, like your grandfather." Dean raised his eyes to Abby. "Dad couldn't risk coming back here; couldn't risk Sam ever coming here. That's why he never mentioned you or your grand parents to us. He knew we'd get curious."

"Yeah, I think you're right." Suddenly, Abby felt exhausted. She'd told them what she knew. She'd even confessed her gift. But what good had it done? "And here you are in Colorado Springs anyway," she said flatly. "I tried to call your dad because I think the coven is gathering members. They're going to perform the ritual again on Halloween night. They'll need a sacrifice." She looked up at Sam. "It's two days till Halloween."


	4. Chapter 4, An invitation

Coven continued...

The Chant

Cold, so cold. The piercing ache of it sent agony through shins, palms and forehead. Like shards of ice thrust through the stone floor bringing pain even as it numbed him. How long? How long had he been whispering in the dark? He shivered.

The master wouldn't leave him, not him. The master knew how special he was, how vital to the chant. The master loved him! His fingernails scraped across the gritty stone as he clenched his fists. Loved him! Loved him!

Before the master had raised him from his so-called life, he'd been weak. His bitch of an ex-wife used him for a doormat. She made him believe that the whole filthy mess was _his_ fault. She'd twisted things; turned him into a sniveling, guilt ridden ass!

Then he'd met the master.

The master understood his needs, even applauded them. The frigid harpy had _driven_ him into the arms of that other woman; another whore, as it turned out. The others understood him too; valued his special talents, his strengths.

They understood his anger too; his right to impose justice. The master had shown them all that together they wielded more power than they dared dream!

The ex-wife had suffered.

A shuddering sob racked his body. He convulsed tightly into his fetal position to choke off the sound. Breathing hard, he wriggled a few inches and pressed his forehead into a new frozen spot on the stone.

_Pain is power._

She'd suffered. Measly human law didn't apply to the master, or to him.

The master was the only real law.

And the master'd been proud, proud of his courage. The thought warmed him. His ragged breathing slowed. It didn't matter how long he'd knelt here in the dark. The numbing cold didn't matter. His pain had a purpose.

Pain is power; power for the chant.

**Chapter 4**

A heavy silence settled on Abby's living room. Their thoughts tumbled too fast for speech.

Dean's mouth caught up to his brain first. He sprang up, grabbed the tea tray and headed for the kitchen. "I'm sorry Abby, but we have to leave."

"What?" Sam's relief at finally getting some answers vanished.

"We're going now. We shouldn't have come here in the first place, Sam. Dad warned…"

"No! We're not running away from this!" Sam faced Dean across the couch. Anger and exhaustion tunneled his mind down to one thought; he was sick to death of having no way to fight back. "This is our job. It's what we do. Isn't that what you're always saying? It doesn't matter how we got here. We're not leaving until we stop this!"

"They're using your dreams to reel you in for the kill, Sam. You're giving them exactly what they want. If we get you away from here, their plans are screwed."

"How do you know that? Maybe they'll just choose another victim, Dean, and it'll start all over. Or maybe the dreams won't stop."

Dean heard the despair edging his brother's voice. Anger tightened his chest. His grip on the tea tray produced an ominous creak. He turned, walked into the kitchen, set the tray down with exaggerated care then stalked back to the living room to within inches of his brothers scowling face. He reached a hand across the back of the couch and laid it against Sam's chest then in a low, calm voice asked, "How are you gonna fight them, Sam?" The hand tightened around a fist full of Sam's shirt. "Look at you. You're half dead already. You haven't slept for days! When you do, you wake up in a cold sweat. Before we got here, how long had it been since you ate a whole meal, huh?"

"What dreams?" The boys ignored her. Abby'd watched them collide not knowing how to stop it or even if she should. They were both desperate to stop whatever was happening to Sam, that was obvious. If it was nightmares, then maybe…

"What, are you my mother?" Sam grabbed his brother's wrist and twisted out of his grip. "I'm twenty-two years old, Dean. I don't need you watching every mouthful…"

"Damn it, somebody has to! You'd stumble right into their…"

"What dreams?" Abby yelled. She was gratified to see that she'd finally gotten their attention until Dean turned his glare on her.

He growled, "Those friggin' priests have been…"

"We don't know that for sure."

"What else could it be, Sam?"

"Hold it!" She held her palms up, facing them like a traffic cop. "The friggin' priests have been…" Abby prompted.

Dean glanced at Sam daring him to interrupt again. "They're sending Sam nightmares somehow. Lotta snow, dead guys hangin' in a tree. Gruesome stuff. And it's killin' him."

She looked from one smoldering face to the other, "So Dean, your theory is they drew him to Colorado Springs to set him up for the ritual?"

Dean jabbed a finger at Sam. "Yes Abby, that's exactly what we think. And that's why we have to go."

Sam huffed out a disgusted breath, turned his back on Dean and dropped down on to the couch. "No." He put his head in his hands. "It isn't like that. I wasn't drawn here. We were just following leads in Dad's notebook. It doesn't make sense." _The bastards are messing with my head. Why?_ He was glad for another flash of anger; it burned out the knot of fear in the pit of his stomach.

Before Dean could start again Abby gave him a warning look. He backed off, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned scowling against the kitchen doorway.

She rose and sat on the coffee table in front of Sam. "Guys, I can't tell you what to do, but I don't think leaving will help." She held up a hand and stopped Dean again. She couldn't believe the way her thoughts were going, but circumstances were changing.

"The nightmares started while you were on the road?" Sam nodded without looking up. "There's no reason to think they'll just stop before the coven has what they want."

"Then what?" Dean asked hottly. "We just give up and let 'em have him?"

"No, of course not!" Abby said. "It's late and we're all too tired to think straight." _I can't believe I'm about to say this._ "Stay here tonight."

"That's not going to help Sam. He won't sleep…"

"Yes, he will." The absolute certainty in her tone dropped into the room like an ice cube in boiling water. _John's gonna kill me_, Abby thought, but plunged on. "Sam, you won't have nightmares tonight; not here."

Sam lifted his head from his hands. Disbelief clear on his face.

"As long as you're in this house, you're protected from the coven or any other psychic bad guys out there."

Dean stepped up and gripped the back of the couch. "Protected how?"

"My grandparents lived here from the day they got married. They raised their kids here. I'm the third generation. This house is a loving home." Dean rolled his eyes. "There's power in that, Dean! And, remember, my grandmother was a kick-ass witch. The herb garden _you_ passed through so easily would've stopped anyone demon-tainted before they could open the gate."

"Oh come on! A bunch of dead flowers? This is nuts."

"The protection comes from the garden, the trees, the family _and_ some very powerful wards my grandmother set around the place that _I've_ beefed up. My home is a psychic fortress! Sam, I promise you not one of those priests could walk in here bodily or otherwise." She put her hands over Sam's and squeezed tightly. She knew she could help him. _Please just give me a chance!_

Sam searched Abby's face for some clue to the source of her certainty. He could feel hope poking at his frayed nerves; threatening to keep him from thinking straight. _Needing it to be true won't make it true_. He stared at the remains of Abby's tea potions, the fire burning low in the hearth, at all the smiling faces in the pictures on the mantel. There's power in a loving home, she'd said.

He felt a weight lift as realization dawned. He didn't have to trust Abby's word alone. He'd felt more relaxed and safe tonight, from the minute he stepped through that door than he had in days. His own gut was telling him that he could let his guard down here. He met Abby's eyes again.

"How can you be sure?" Sam asked, trying to keep the desperate hope out of his voice. "The dreams are real. I wake up shivering and bruised like I've actually lived through them." He glanced over at Dean, knowing this little revelation wasn't going to sit well. It hadn't.

Abby caught the brief interplay. Between Sam radiating exhausted determination and Dean barely suppressing his urge to hit something; her own stomach was in knots. She narrowed her eyes at Sam and thought for a minute. "I'm sure the house alone could protect you, but I can add another layer. I can cast a protective circle around you for the night."

"Cast a circle? You mean like cast a spell on him?" Dean stood tensely.

"Not on him, around him. It's complicated." How could she make him understand in fifty words or less what it meant to be Wiccan. Abby felt her jaws clench as she watched Dean pace. Maybe if she turned him into a slug and back he'd get the idea. A grin tugged at the corners of her mouth; she firmly tugged them back. She leaned toward Sam, his hands in hers. "Please, just trust me."

Sam turned to face his brother. "Dean, I've got to rest, man. I think the nightmares would find me no matter where we went. I can feel the taint of pure evil every time they get inside my head. And I can't…" He clenched his teeth down and swallowed hard as a hitch in his voice surprised him. "I've got to take this chance."

"I promised you sweet dreams," Abby said quietly and squeezed Sam's hands.

Dean frowned at them. There was so much at stake. Sam's life. And something new; a craving for something from so deep in his past it shocked him to realize he still remembered it. The last time he'd had a home, their mom had been alive, and this place... All he knew was, it felt good and fragile and he didn't want to test it and have it all turn out to be an illusion or worse, a lie. But looking at the two of them he saw he didn't have any choice. He was going to have to swallow his doubts at least for tonight.

"Cast your circle," Dean told her.

Abby grinned at Sam as he bristled with annoyance again. "We'll let your big brother think he just gave us permission."

Sam's angry words became a choked laugh.

AN: My heartfelt thanks to everybody who's put Coven on their favorites list! You guys keep me going. Once again I welcome, encourage and long for your comments. -Even now in 2010, I'm still around. El


	5. Chapter 5, A Good Night

AN: I did a lot of research on the Wicca circle ritual, but I'm not a practitioner. I apologize in advance for any mistakes I've made in this scene. Please DO send me your corrections and comments. I'd really like to get it right.

Chapter 5

Abby stood and rubbed her hands together briskly, feeling reenergized, "Ok, you guys head on upstairs. The guest room's in the loft on the left. I'm gonna get a couple things, then I'll be right up."

"You're gonna do it right now?" This was moving too fast for Dean.

"Sure, Sam's exhausted. There's no time like the present."

They watched her almost skip into the kitchen.

"She's having fun." Dean remarked blandly. "Let's hope it's in a 'Glenda, Good Witch of the North' kind of way and not a Wicked Witch of..."

"At this point, I'm too fried to care," Sam sighed. Dean circled the couch to grab his elbow as he rose. Sam jerked his arm free, "Hey, I'm not that fried! Jeez, Dean." But the stairs looked long and steep. "Hey, you think she has real beds or just guest room cots up there?"

Dean cast a glance up to the loft. "Beds. Absolutely. Blankets and pillows too, bro."

"Oh God! I swear I'll give her a million dollars if I sleep through the night." Sam was pleased to see his feet were moving.

"Watch it; remember she knows when you're lying."

"I'm not lying; if I ever have it, sweet dreams or no dreams, it's hers."

The familiar flow of banter carried them into the loft.

At the top of the stairs Sam stopped. "Oh, wow."

"Sam, move it. What's wrong?" Dean gently pushed his brother out of the way. His jaw dropped. "Oh, no."

They stared. Sam started an exhausted chuckle. It was contageous. They had to laugh or implode just as Abby came up the stairs.

"What? What's so funny?"

"This…this must have been your room?" Sam asked, between gasps.

Puzzled, but beginning to figure out that she wasn't going to get _in on_ the joke, she _was_ the joke, Abby said, "Yeah, so?" She set the basket of supplies on to a bedside table.

"It's so…it's just so…"

"Pink!" Dean's eyes were bright with mirth, at her expense true, but the veil of worry he'd worn all evening had lifted. The humiliation that colored her cheeks was worth it. She smiled back.

"So what's wrong with pink?" Abby asked with mock indignation. The boys doubled over. "Hey, I was fourteen when I decorated this room! I haven't gotten around to redoing it for company." Honestly, she couldn't see what was so bad about it. Her two twin beds, one for her, one for sleep-overs, were covered in cheery, pink satin bed spreads with layered ruffles flowing down the sides. An assorted of purple and lime-green throw pillows and a modest pile of Beany Babies accented each bed. Her grandmother had found the plush, pink rug, shaped like a giant heart on sale at Target. Ok, the teddy bear lamps were a bit much, but come on…

Sam collapsed. A shower of pillows and Beany Babies bounced to the floor. "Oh man, I'm not sure the dreams I'll be having in _this_ bed will be any better than the nightmare."

"Ok, enough dissing the witch." Abby dove into her basket. "Sam, get ready for bed. I've got a few things to set up." She met identically awkward looks.

_Oh, modesty, right. _She grimaced. "Uh, I'll just go downstairs for a minute then."

Dean shrugged at Sam's raised eyebrows then slouched over to the other bed. Sam kicked off his shoes and started to shrug out of his flannel shirt. His movements were slow, his limbs pleasantly heavy. His sleeve tangled at his wrist. Dean tugged it off his hand and helped him with the other side. "Abby's really somethin', isn't she? I think…" Sam's words got lost as he pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Dean caught his brother's clothes as Sam dropped them. He laid them over the side of Abby's pink and white gingham chair. "What'd you say?" he asked.

"I said, I think everything'll be all right tonight. I feel good here. Better than I have in a long time."

Dean pulled the edges of the bed spread back. They blinked at the rainbow of flowers exposed on the sheets. "Get in touch with your feminine side, bro. Climb in."

Sam scowled, but couldn't resist the urge to be horizontal. "Oh man!" he sighed. "I just have to keep my eyes closed and this is the most perfect bed I've ever..."

Dean thought Sam had fallen asleep mid-sentence when he heard his brother whisper, "You gonna be alright; with the spell casting and all that?"

"Oh yeah, I'll be fine. I'm more worried about what I'm gonna find under the other bed spread over there."

Sam smiled faintly, turned onto his side. "Wish me luck," he breathed and was asleep.

"Good luck, Sammy." Dean looked down into Sam's face and clenched his fists around the jeans he still held.

"Is he already asleep?" Abby whispered as she came up the stairs.

Dean dropped Sam's jeans onto the chair. "Yeah, the minute his head hit the pillow."

"Good." She crossed the loft to her basket and began to pull out her tools. "We'd better get started, he'll be dreaming soon."

"Did you say, we?"

"Sure." She smiled at the dismay on his face. "Don't worry. Here, take this and put it on the floor at the north corner of the bed."

"Yeah. Ok." This was going to be interesting. "Which corner is north?" He asked as he took the small, carved, wooden bowl from her hands. It was full of salt or sugar. He stuck his finger in it to find out which; tasted salt.

"North is on the right side, up at the head of the bed." She pointed. "North is aligned with the Earth element."

Dean gave a derisive snort as he squatted beside the bed. Abby bit her tongue and decided to ignore him for the moment. She got out another bowl, this one pewter and filled it with water from a matching flask. "This one goes on the west corner. Can you…"

"Yeah, I can figure out the direction now. So, we'll set up all four elements?"

"Yes. I usually cast a circle with only three, but since we're specifically protecting Sam's sleep, I decided to ask Water too."

"Ask water. Oh, good idea," Dean muttered.

"Dean, if you can't crack your mind open just a little bit, you might as well…"

"I'm sorry." He stopped, squatting down at the corner of the bed and closed his eyes for a moment. "I'll get with the program. Heck, after all I've seen why shouldn't I give Wicca a chance, right?"

"Right. Just shelve the doubts for a little while, ok?"

He nodded and set the pewter bowl on the floor.

Abby moved to the next corner of the bed and lit a candle. She held a bundle of herbs over the flame. They flared briefly before she blew them out. A slender tendril of smoke rose slowly into the air. It was several seconds before Dean caught the scents of rosemary and lemons. Abby dropped the smoldering herbs into a narrow glass cup, stood and switched off the lights.

Violet-grey moonlight fell through the curtains and cast the window panes' gingham pattern onto the floor. Barely a flicker when the lights were on, now the candle loomed up large in the dark and set everything in the room twitching. Dean looked away from the flame to let his eyes adjust. When he turned back… _She's morphed again!_

She'd left her moccasins downstairs. The flawless, pale skin of her legs and face reflected light sources, moon and flame, so perfectly that she glowed like a gas light in the fog. Sensuality wafted from her like a perfume. He couldn't tear his eyes away. _Way, way out of my depth here._

Abby stepped slowly toward him. "Casting a spell is like a prayer or meditation on a specific intent," she explained in the low voice they'd both adopted to avoid waking Sam. "Everybody has a protective circle around them all the time. Most never know it exists. I'll give you a little demonstration." She stood facing him a bit more than arm's distance away. "There's nothing threatening about our positions now, right?" Her smile was open and secretive both at once.

"Right, threatening's not the word I'd use."

Moving smoothly, she took one giant step toward him. Now he could feel her breath on his face, feel the warmth of her body radiating down the length of his. He swallowed and nearly rocked back a step, but caught himself.

"Ah, now this is uncomfortable. I'm inside your circle, uninvited. Even though I haven't touched you, I've invaded your space and _that's_ threatening."

Their eyes met and for a moment Dean thought he might lose himself in that gaze. Abby stepped back.

There was a new briskness to her whisper. "What we're going to do now is strengthen Sam's protective circle."

"With the help of the elements."

"Yeah, and our own powers."

"Uh, I don't think I have any powers, Abby. That's you and Sam's department."

"Everybody's got powers, Dean. Not everybody chooses to learn to use them, but they're everywhere in everything." She waved him into the gingham chair. _And you'll totally screw up the vibes if you don't relax_. She knelt in front of him, her patchwork skirt pooling around her, then slowly reached for his hands turning them palms up. You could tell a lot from a person's hands, as any good palm reader knew. Like the rest of Dean's body, his hands felt strong and lean. He wore no rings. The rough calluses on his palms told her he wasn't afraid of work. The ones on his knuckles said he still trained and sparred. When she placed her palms lightly against his, her heart skipped a beat as his fingers curled gently around hers.

Abby took a deep centering breath. "Are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be. Just tell me what to do."

"Ok. First take a deep breath and relax. Focus your thoughts on Sam; on specifically what we want tonight."

"No friggin' demons in his dreams," Dean snarled.

"Right. Now, I'm going to open my Sight." He shifted uncomfortably. "I won't be reading your mind or anything," Abby reassured him. "Seeing your aura is just a byproduct of being open for the casting."

"It's alright. Let's get on with it."

Dean turned to Sam's sleeping form under the blankets.

Abby rose and walked silent-footed to kneel beside the small bowl of salt, picked it up and tipped it. White crystals glistened in the candle light as they flowed into a small heap on the floor. Dean tensed as she drew an ornately carved dagger from a pocket in her skirt and held it in her right hand, point down. She inscribed three clockwise circles over the sparkling pile with the dagger's point. "Mother earth, Gaia, this is your son, protect his rest, rebuild his strength. Enfold him in your perfect love." She stood. This time chanting her incantation in Latin, she inscribed a larger circle, one that enclosed the whole bed.

Dean blinked. In a trick of the light, as the dagger drew the line, he thought he could actually see it, pale and green; glowing around Sam. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. It was still there.

_Ok, open my mind. Take a deep breath,_ Dean thought. He focused on the hallucination and imagined strengthening it. A smile barely tipped the corners of his mouth as the circle glowed brighter. _Abracadabra, man._

Abby let her arms glide to her sides, then with a dancer's grace moved clockwise to the east corner, Fire. She knelt again, completely serene; every movement unintentionally seductive.

Again she inscribed three small circles with the dagger, this time over the flame. With each motion Dean could swear that the tip of the dagger glowed brighter.

"Spirit of fire, warrior's soul, guard your brother's rest tonight. Rekindle the strength of his heart. He has work to do."

_It has to be real! _Dean could see the red glow leave the dagger's tip as Abby sketched a second circle in the air. He reached for everything he felt for his younger brother and focused his thoughts; _Keep the bastards out. Leave him alone while he sleeps. Let him dream of fine women and basketball and Abby's stew. _

Abby released her connection to Fire, preparing to move on to Air. Dean's aura glowed steadily in her peripheral vision. As she moved to the southern quarter a pulse of energy drew her attention. His aura expanded. Dense, almost fluid, it moved toward the circles enclosing Sam's bed and flowed into the green circle of Earth. Sam's aura leapt to meet his brother's. She smiled, closed her eyes and let the easy harmony of the three of them flow in and out with her breath.

"Mighty Air. Sweep away the evil tendrils that twist your brother's dreams. Guard his rest." A golden circle coiled around and between the other two.

The last call, Water, would be the key, for water was the realm of dreams and of love and a more perfect binding she couldn't imagine. She knelt one last time at the bowl of water and dipped her blade into it.

"Dear sister Water, queen of dreams, you are your brother's best and brightest hope. Wash the taint of the evil ones from his sleep. Send him dreams to buoy him up. Let him sleep in perfect trust of our protection." The blue line of power wove itself in perfect counter point to Air, Earth and Fire and the circle was complete.

She breathed her thanks to the elements then quietly stepped back and closed her Sight with a sigh. Dean sat in her silly gingham chair absolutely still, his gaze fixed on Sam. Though she couldn't see it now, she knew that his aura was still firmly focused on pouring energy into the circles. Abby gently laid her hands on his shoulders.

"Dean." She breathed his name. "He's alright now. We did great. That's got to be one of the strongest circles I've ever cast."

He sighed. "We did it," he whispered. "The circles were awesome."

"You saw them?"

"Yeah. Green, red, gold, blue all kind of woven together." Abby's eyebrows rose. "What's the big deal?"

"Well, nothing much, except it took me months to sharpen my focus and unclutter my mind enough to actually See what I was doing when I cast a spell." She knelt beside his chair resting her hands on his forearm and smiled. "You've got real witch potential, Mr. Winchester."

He shook his head, knuckling his eyes, "Ooooh no. I'll leave the psychic gig to you and Sam." He pushed the chair back and stood with a huge yawn.

It was contagious. When Abby's yawn followed, she suddenly felt every minute of the long and dramatic day settle like a heavy blanket on her shoulders.

Dean took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

"Whooa." She stumbled against his chest.

"You ok?"

"Yeah," she said a little breathlessly. "Must have come up too fast." One hand dropped to his bicep; firm as the branch of a tree. She was acutely aware of the warmth of his hands around her waist steadying her. Drawing her closer.

His breath warmed her lips before he leaned close, and kissed her.

She slid her hand up along the beard-roughened line of his jaw and kissed him back. The weight of the long day disappeared. Their bodies pressed together and she lost herself in the rush of heat that swept from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

When their lips parted, Dean let out a slow, shuddering breath. She saw her own surprise mirrored in his brown eyes.

"Wow, that was…unexpected," Abby breathed. All on its own, her hand drifted toward his neck again. She stopped it at his cheek, ran her thumb along his bottom lip still glistening from the kiss, and sighed. Her next words came out in a whisper as if she hoped he wouldn't hear them. "And, we both really need to get some rest."

"Yeah?" Dean _had been_ tired; about two minutes ago. But now, what he really wanted was another couple hours to kiss the weariness from this woman's face, to memorize the arch of her dark brows and the smoothness of her cheek, the curve of that sweet mouth…_Ah crap!_

What he _needed_ was a cold shower. What the hell did he think he was doing?

Dean had a great deal of respect for women, but only had two types of relationships: professional, meaning he worked with, rescued or used them in the hunt; and sexual, meaning pure unencumbered, uncomplicated playtime, no emotional entanglements allowed. He was very upfront and had no shortage of enthusiastic playmates. In homage to the "no entanglements" rule he was fanatical about practicing safe sex.

When Dean felt potentially dangerous twinges in the area of his heart, he had an off-switch, very effective. If necessary, it could be combined with getting the hell out of Dodge.

He'd just met this woman and already several dangerous twinges had gone unheeded. Off-switch? What off-switch? He'd completely forgotten he had it. Dean straightened. Separating their bodies took conscious effort; like pulling two magnets apart.

"Yeah, we ought to get some sleep." He noticed that his hands were still circling her waist and forced them to his sides. "I'll, see you in the morning."

"Yeah, you will." She beamed like that was the best news she'd heard all day.

He tried not to return that smile. He looked over as Sam turned onto his side and burrowed into the rainbow sheets.

"Dean, don't stay up all night watching over Sam. He'll be ok. We did a great job."

Dean let the smile come. "I know. Abby thanks, for everything tonight. It's been... interesting."

"You're welcome." She gave his hand a final squeeze then she was gone.

As he climbed into sheets almost loud enough to require earplugs, he argued a losing battle in his head. A treacherous little voice said, _Abby already knows your secret. It won't be like last time. She's a hunter too._

_Right, she's a hunter. _He answered it._ So she knows we work alone._

The traitor again_, You hunt with your brother. _

_That's completely different. She's a woman! _

_You're a chauvinist pig. _

_Oh, for God's sake, I'm completely nuts!_

He finally slept promising himself that the kiss fest had been nothing more than a post witchcraft buzz. It'd wear off with a good night's rest.

He woke up once in the night. The only thing he remembered about the dream was the scent of Abby's breath and the softness of her hair.

_Crap!_ He grumbled, turned over, and slept soundly again.

AN: Ok, so I couldn't resist stirring a little romance into the pot. So sue me.


	6. Chapter 6, A Day of Rest

The Chant

Her knee buckled snapping her back to consciousness like a shove into icy water. She let the chant howl with the shock of her return. Three of them stood shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed in a closed circle. Their voices blended and vibrated through their bodies; one body. The cold numbed her bare feet. She no longer felt the rough stone only the pressure of her mates at her sides. Their breath radiated heat into the tight circle. Sweat trickle down between her breasts and over the fine hairs on her belly. Frigid cold cramped her back.

There was a time when she'd believed no one would ever touch her again. Alone and invisible she'd struggled to make sense of the world. Her family set her adrift. "Go out and make something of yourself," they said, as if she'd been nothing before. She'd become less than nothing.

Till the Master found her.

She sent the thrill of the memory into the chant, up and over the exhaustion. She didn't understand the guttural, percussive sounds that lacerated her dry throat, but she knew it was she and her mates that lent the words power. Her mind plucked out his name from among the sounds and she felt a surge of pleasure each time it passed her cracked and bleeding lips.

Little by little the master filled her; showd her that it wasn't she who was invisible but _they _who were blind. She learned to revel in her feminine form and to use it. The mindless drones on campus hadn't seen that coming. A laugh gurgled up through the chant. They'd been so easy to twist; so easy to ruin; so very weak before her power; their power, her coven mates, her new family.

They would not fail. They would give everything to the chant.

Then the master would come and fill them again.

**Chapter 6**

Sam opened his eyes for the third time that morning and smiled. No pounding heart. No sweating. No bruising pain.

So just because he could, he closed his eyes again still smiling and drifted back into a pleasant doze.

The fourth time he opened his eyes; he saw that the rumpled bed next to him was empty. Dean was up. Neither his missing brother nor the sun streaming in through the gingham curtains could have coaxed him out from under the warm cocoon of blankets, but his nose finally got a vital message to his brain. Someone was frying bacon. And there was coffee. He stretched and yawned hugely then threw the covers back and swung his feet over the side of the bed.

_Oh yeah, sleep is a wonderful thing!_

He found the bathroom supplied with everything he needed for a good hot shower and shave. Even his toothbrush sat in a pink porcelain cup on the sink. Dean must have brought the bags up. He hadn't heard a thing. _Man, that's so great!_

Sam hummed as he pulled jeans and a dark red, long sleeved T-shirt out of his duffel. He noticed, pleased with himself, that he'd folded his clothes neatly over the arm of the chair last night.

He looked around the room. It surpassed Olsen twins cute and crossed right over into Hillary Duff perky in the daylight. Perfect.

Sunliht streamed in the big multi-paned windows at the front of the house warming his left cheek as he walked downstairs in stocking feet. Last night the room had been all warm glow and flickering firelight. Today it dazzled. Stained-glass ornaments hung in every window bouncing sparks of colored light as if the room were full of Tinker Bells. And books; floor to ceiling shelves brimming with them ran the length of two walls opposite the fireplace.

He took a step toward the shelves wondering what Abby liked to read when his stomach growled. Bacon called.

He looked in the kitchen's wide doorway and was surprised to see Dean, not Abby at the stove.

"You can fry bacon?"

Dean turned quickly, "Hey, you're up!" Just a moment's study of Sam's face and he didn't need to ask how he'd slept. Dean turned back to the skillet grinning. "Of course I can fry bacon. I'm a man of many talents. You want a BLT?"

"BLT for breakfast?"

"This is lunch, bro; late lunch."

"What? What time is it?" Sam spotted a clock on the wall. "Three o'clock! In the afternoon?"

Dean made a face and waved the spatula toward the window. "This ain't Alaska, dude."

"Wow." Sam rubbed at the back of his neck sheepishly. "I guess I really needed sleep."

"Ya think?"

Sam ducked his head. "And I owe Abby a million bucks." _Actually I owe Abby a lot more than that_. "Where is she?"

"She turned into Ranger Graham and road her broom to work. You want a BLT or not?"

"Sure, yeah. Where's the coffee?"

"Right behind me. Hey, toast the bread and slice the tomatoes will ya. Everything's sitting on the counter there."

Sam looked at his brother through narrowed eyes as he slipped a couple pieces of bread into the toaster. He looked comfortable here in Abby's kitchen. Sam started to wonder just how well things had gone last night after he fell asleep.

"So, the circle casting and all that went ok?"

"Perfectly." And perfection had just kept on coming this morning, Dean thought. Friggin' confusing, unwelcome, perfection. After waking up to the relief that Sam was still asleep and there'd been no choked off screams in the night, the smell of coffee drifting up the stairs had propelled him out of bed and into the bathroom for a quick wash. It wasn't till he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, toothbrush crammed in his cheek that he realized that Abby had brought their duffels in out of the car.

First, she must move like a cat; Dean was a very light sleeper.

Second, she'd broken into his car! It'd been locked; he was sure of it. They carried too much potentially illegal not to mention lethal stuff not to be pathological about locking it up. _Huh._

Dean pulled on his jeans and a well worn blue T-shirt, clipped his angel around his neck and walked barefoot downstairs a little more circumspectly than he would have a few minutes before.

Soft sounds of activity drew him into the kitchen. Abby'd morphed again. She moved busily around the room in her uniform and a Jackson Pollock-stained apron. Her hair was tamed in a neat braid.

As she caught sight of him, Dean hit the off-switch and schooled his face and his feelings to friendly nonchalance, (last night was nothing more than an exhaustion induced impulse). She promptly and completely blew his cool with a kiss that curled his toes and flipped the switch back on.

He stood stunned while she bustled around the kitchen explaining her philosophy about relationships. Life is too short, she'd said, to waste time playing games. With a beginning as sweet and natural as last night, they were obliged to see where it would lead.

She was nuts. But damn, it did feel good.

To distract himself he tried to drum up a little annoyance and asked her about the bags and the car. She just smiled a heart-stopping, Cheshire cat smile and said, "I'm good with locks." She kissed him goodbye and went cheerily off to work.

Dean forced a frown down over the grin that tugged at his lips with the memory.

The boys built sandwiches, settled at the table and talked; just talked the way non-ghoul hunting people did.

"Ya know" Sam said after nearly an hour. "I think this may be the longest conversation we've ever had that didn't involve something trying to kill us."

"Sad, but true. And we're gonna have to do a lot more of this, but right now duty calls." Dean gulped down the last of his can of Coke and stood with his dishes in hand. "Abby left us some homework. She wants you to draw the building in your dream."

"What a way to kill a Hallmark moment. Why?"

"She's been keeping tabs on the coven." Dean said. "They've reestablished their quota of members. They're Angels of the _nine_ again. They're setting up the ritual. She's found three or four possible locations. The big show's gotta take place on contaminated holy ground."

"Contaminated how?"

"The usual; mass murder, suicide, torture. Any chance your building's a church?"

"Maybe. She got pencil and paper?"

"Over on the desk in the living room. Go ahead, I'll clean up."

"What'd Abby say about these priests?" Sam called from the other room.

"Not much. She was busy putting dinner together." He stuck his head out around the edge of the doorway. "Oh, and don't touch the crock pot before 6pm no matter what you smell. I think she put wards around it."

"She doesn't trust us?"

"Should she?"

Sam chuckled. "Probably not." He found the pad and pencil and sat down on the couch to draw. Either diving into the nightmare was getting easier or Abby's voodoo worked because the dream's sharp images didn't deal him the sucker punch they had before. No adrenalin rush; no sweaty palms. He tried for as much detail as he could.

"Draw the area around the building too. Any landmarks that stand out might give her a clue about where it is."

Sam roughed in the basic shapes. What emerged was a large stone building sunken in a hollow as if the weight of it had compressed the land. Neglected walls left curves where straight lines should be. The front entry way sat low like the head of a tortoise poking out of an ancient crumbling shell. A dark, jagged hole marred the roof where a steeple might have stood. He smudged in black stains on the walls and pressed graphite into paper darkening high, narrow windows.

Last he added the huge, gnarled tree that dominated his dream. He left the image free of the hanging bodies. He didn't want to pass them on; didn't want his brother or Abby's minds polluted with their image. When he'd drawn everything else, he sat back.

Dean looked over Sam's shoulder. "It looks old. Part of the roof's caved in?"

"Yeah. _If_ this was a church and _if_ the cross on the steeple fell...Maybe it's been hanging inside, up-side-down for the last hundred years. Perfect stage for satanic ritual." Sam had a gleam in his eye. "I know this is all speculation but, Dean, this has got to be the place. We ought to be out there looking for it! Halloween's tomorrow."

This was what Dean had been waiting for. Abby'd warned him that Sam might not be safe outside her gate. "Just keep him here," she'd said. "You could both use the rest."

Dean agreed, reluctantly, to stay put for Sam's sake. Now he needed to convince his brother.

"Sam, once you show Abby this drawing, she'll nail the place. If it's up in the back country, we'd have no chance of finding it without her." He hurried on as Sam opened his mouth to argue. "She's been working this case for years. We'd just be going over ground she's already covered. In an hour, maybe less, she'll bring us up to speed and we'll plan our next move." He backhanded Sam's shoulder. "Come on, relax for five minutes."

Sam scowled. He grudgingly admitted that waiting for Abby made sense, but he didn't appreciate them treating him like he was twelve. He expected it from Dean. But what gave Abby the idea that he was so damned fragile?

When she came through the door an hour later, Abby's cheery smile and the kiss she planted on Dean's lips knocked the protest speech Sam had prepared right out of his head.

"I'm gonna go change," Abby said after she'd released Dean. "Then let's eat. We've got a lot to go over tonight."

Sam stared at his brother, eyebrows arched.

One side of Dean's mouth quirked up. "You heard the woman. Let's eat."


	7. Chapter 7, What They're Up Against

AN: Here's a warning. Remember that I started writing this story during season one. This chapter contains one of my guesses that turned out to be wrong as the show progressed. It's a little detail, but I'm sure you'll all notice it.

**Chapter 7**

After dinner the threesome went to the living room to sit by the fire. Between bites of homemade chocolate chip cookies that the magic freezer had yielded up, Dean said, "So, tomorrow we've got nine assholes to find and bury. Three for each of us."

"Sounds doable." Sam said. "But why not tonight? Why wait? I'll show you my drawing Abby…"

Abby held up a hand. "Now wait a minute. I underestimated these guys the last time I faced them. Went in all bluster and no brains and almost got myself killed." She turned to Dean. "And nobody's going to get buried, at least not any of the six new coven members."

"Why the hell not? If they're the ones puttin' toxic dreams in Sam's head, they deserve it."

Abby frowned. "Do you guys know much about cults and brainwashing techniques?"

"You mean like Jim Jones and David Koresh, that kind of thing?" Sam asked.

"Well, yeah, but those are just the big, splashy cults that get on the news. I'm talking about the common everyday variety. Religious cults, exercise cults, diet cults, they all prey on vulnerable people."

"You mean people stupid enough to fall for their bull?" Dean said.

"No, I mean, anybody." Abby insisted. "Anybody lonely or depressed, maybe just divorced, off to college for the first time, lost their job, whatever. Cult recruiters know just how to spot them. They swoop in, offer company, affection, validation. It's called _love bombing_."

"Sounds like a trendy pickup technique." Dean smiled with chocolate in his teeth.

"It's actually a brainwashing technique," Abby said. "The target walks into the group and everybody's immediately _waaay_ into them. They get flattery, a shoulder to cry on whatever strokes they need but aren't getting out in the real world. It's addicting. The leader makes sure they know he's the _only _one who can make everything right for them."

"For a price," Dean said.

"Yes. Slowly the things they're asked to do for the leader become more and more extreme. Those six new recruits for the Angels of the Nine started out normal people at a tough point in their lives. The priests recruited them, but, instead of a charismatic human leader who wants all their money, they have a demon who wants their souls."

"So, you want us to go easy on 'em?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Well yeah. At least _they're _still human."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

She pressed a finger into a smudge of chocolate chip on her plate. "The leader's powerful. The two priests who escaped with him last time have been demon ridden for so long there's not much human left. I Saw them the night of the ritual.

"That's Saw with a capital "S"? Dean asked quietly.

"Oh yeah," Abby breathed. There'd been nightmares for months afterward. Nightmares that Gram's magic couldn't stop.

"What happened the night you were taken?" Sam knew the look he saw on Abby's face; he'd worn it when Dean first cornered him and got him to describe the dream. "I know it's hard to talk about, believe me, but I think we're gonna need to know."

Abby gave him a determined nod. "Absolutely. You guys have to know what we're up against."

"So, six years ago you were trying to infiltrate the coven?" Dean prompted.

Abby straightened up. She was grateful for the all business tone in Dean's voice. She rocked her head from side to side working kinks out of her neck. "Yeah. Remember, I was only eighteen. I was going on information in Poppa's journal. He'd found a pattern of disappearances going back a hundred years or more. It was always Halloween night; always seven people, about every thirteen years.

"Seven people?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, the six coven recruits and the sacrifice. I was a freshman at the University of Colorado. The coven was trolling the campus for one more member. I set myself up as bait, poor little lamb who's lost her way." She chuckled humorlessly and shook her head. "It never occurred to me that it wasn't an act." She dropped her face into her hands. "What an idiot. This is so embarrassing."

"Abby, like you said, you were eighteen," Dean said. "I thought I was gonna make a million buck doing consults on horror flicks when I was eighteen. Just tell the tale."

Abby blew out a breath. "Ok, two nights before Halloween a couple of the coven members came to the dorm and invited me to a party." She drew sarcastic air quotes around _party_. "I opened my Sight… A dark taint twisted through their auras like a vein of black mold. It dimmed them; kind of sucked the energy out of them. I was intrigued." A grim little smile tugged at her lips. "I should have been terrified. When I went with them, all I had was this." She shook back one sleeve and showed them a bracelet. "It was a gift from my dad. _Now_ it'd be a big help. _Then_ I didn't know how to use it."

Dean glanced at the simple twist of silver around her wrist and his hand drifted to the angel at his neck. It'd been one of the few things of their mom's that they'd salvaged from the burned ruins of the only home he and Sam had ever known. The word _talisman_ crossed his mind. Was that what she was hinting at?

Abby brushed a stray curl out of her eyes. "So, they took me to the church downtown, tainted holy ground. Big stone ruin on a ruined block. I was beginning to get butterflies. _Finally_, noticed how isolated the place was; _finally_ realized that I hadn't told anyone where I was going or what I was doing." She swiped self consciously at a film of sweat forming on her forehead. "Before we went in, one of them asked me if I entered of my own free will. That's the key to how this demon operates. He recruits _volunteers _into the cult."

"More power in a sacrifice freely made," Sam said quietly.

Abby looked at him. "Right. People make little sacrifices every day for the good of their families, the good of the community. But this demon twists that good impulse, distorts the definition of free will too. I probably could have gotten out right then just by saying _no_. I said _yes._ They hustled me into a dark cell and locked the door." Abby lifted the mass of curls grown damp with sweat off of her neck. "No food, no water, no light. It was the chanting that drove me nuts. When the two priests came to get me about a day and half later I was a basket case. They're freaky strong and fast. They threw me around like two dogs with a toy. Their auras were twisted worse than the others. Almost as if they didn't have auras of their own anymore. I totally panicked. Brain turned off; adrenalin took over." Abby laced her fingers together to keep them from trembling. Her feelings had long since evolved from fear to outrage, but sweaty palms and trembling hands were still the result.

Dean, unable to sit any longer, left his chair and walked to the large picture window. He put one palm against it and watched the fog form a handprint on the cool, inky glass. He stared at his own reflection, wishing there was something to see outside in the dark. The pictures he was seeing in his head made him want to hit something.

Abby watched him for a moment, then went on resignedly. "The chanting ratcheted up a notch. In the old chapel, the smell of brimstone was so intense I could hardly breathe. The fight was all out of me by then. They threw me up on to the altar and tied me down. I could feel this monster lurking just outside my vision. There was laughter in the dark. I knew something was gonna eat me alive."

Sam closed his eyes. He was breathing too fast. Shadows of _his_ nightmare crowded his mind; the bodies in the tree drawing him closer, dark, frozen faces pulling the nooses taut. He rubbed his forehead, pressed his fingers into the spot between his brows where a sudden, dull ache had begun to pulse.

"When I finally saw the demon, he was this ordinary looking man with silver white hair, smiling down at me. I felt a hysterical sense of relief. I think I even started giggling." She paused, "Then I looked into his eyes."

Dean frowned noticing both Sam and Abby's pale faces and almost suggested they take a break. Then he registered her eyes again. She challenged him, forbade his surge of righteous anger on her behalf. She didn't need rescuing, the look said, not any more, never again. Dean took a deep breath and forced his fists open at his sides.

Abby went on, "Man, you expect demons to be ugly on the outside; this one keeps it all under his skin." She swallowed hard. "He wore a crystal around his neck. It had an aura, like a living person. The demon said when he trapped my soul in that crystal, my life force would anchor him to this world." She gave her head a shake. "He kept blathering on, gloating, but the words made less and less sense to me. I wish I'd paid more attention, but the priests were getting... distracting."

She raised her left sleeve turning her palm up. Dean had to squint to see the faint jagged scar that ran vertically along her wrist.

"They cut me." She could still hear the ragged scream that had erupted from her throat and echoed around the chamber with that first stab of pain.

But that had signaled the end of it all too.

Dean looked into her face. The anguish he'd expected wasn't there. A smile played across her lips. Realization dawned. "Dad and your granny showed up," he said.

She nodded and her smile softened. "My guardian angels to the rescue." She looked back and forth between the two Winchesters. At least, underestimating the demon and his coven wouldn't be a problem any more. She sighed heavily. "So that's my sad song. How're we gonna kick their asses this time?"


	8. Chapter 8, Just a Little More Bad News

Chapter 8

Dean's shoulders slumped and he walked back to fall limply into the big wine colored chair. He felt like he'd been in a bar fight. "Abby, what were they trying to do to you?" He asked. "What's the deal with the crystal?"

She took a big sip of tea and grimaced into the cup. "I've been working on that. Fortunately, all the demon's gloating gave me some clues." She pulled her own journal out of a book stand beside Dean's chair and opened it. Her fingers skipped down columns of writing and illustrations as neat as the rows of herbs in her kitchen. She frowned down at her notes. "It's pretty complicated."

"Just give us the CliffsNotes version." Dean said.

"Ok." She cleared her throat. "I think the chanting opens a rift to hell…" She looked up, letting the weight of that soak in. "… just big enough for the demon to siphon off enough dark energy to suck the life out of the victim and store it in the crystal. That's why I Saw an aura around it."

"And the crystal needs a recharge every few years." Sam said quietly.

"Right." She paused, took a breath, "And I have one more theory that's a lot worse, for us now anyway."

Dean leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. "Great. Lay it out."

Dean was back to business just as if he hadn't been about to slam his fist through her front window a few minutes ago. Abby thought, _Ok, stay frosty, big brother. You're not gonna like this._

"A friend of mine has this theory…"

"A friend of yours? Somebody else knows what's going on?" Dean asked a little too loudly.

"Yeah, you'll meet her tomorrow." Abby hurried on. "The theory is that every few decades this demon needs to acquire a whole new body. The power he draws from the soul in the crystal makes the body he's riding age very slowly; repair itself from injuries that kind of thing, but he can't stop time completely. She figures he's probably getting pretty desperate for another vessel by now."

"She?"

"Yeah, my friend. Dean, keep up ok? This is important."

His frown turned into a scowl.

"So you think this time the demon needs to possess…" Sam cleared his throat. "... somebody new?"

Abby could see Sam's jaw muscles bunch. Her brow drew down. "No, not exactly. We think that this demon doesn't share the body like in possession. He forces the other person's soul completely out then levers himself into the empty shell. That's the only way he could keep one body for decades."

Sam bolted to his feet as if the dam holding back his racing thoughts had sprung a serious leak. His words came out in a rush. "How does he trap the soul in the crystal? A body couldn't survive with only a demon it it, could it?"

"I don't know."

"Abby." Sam pleaded through gritted teeth.

"Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't see much of the ritual. The rift never opened. I'm making educated guesses here." She watched him pace. "Once the hell-force pushes the soul out, it's literally adrift. Crystals have strong elemental magic. Maybe they draw the soul to them; attract it to a safe haven; mother earth." She could see her answer didn't satisfy him. "I'm sorry I can't be more certain."

"It's ok." Dean said. "Sam, sit down."

"Dean, we've got to have more information than this! We can't come up with a plan based on guesses."

"Sam! Sit. Down."

The big brother command in Dean's voice; that familiar combination of understanding, irritation and authority got Sam's attention. He dropped onto the stone hearth and perched tensely on its edge.

"Is there any chance that this is the demon that killed Mom and Jess?" Dean's voice was quiet and even, but Abby heard its hard edge.

"I don't know who Jess is..."

"Was" Sam corrected her abruptly, his face turned away.

Abby's brows drew down and she glanced at Dean. She could see from his grim look that there was a story here, but he shook his head. She wasn't going to hear it tonight. "No, I don't think it's the same demon that killed your mom. This one's been around here for a century or more, repeating his routine with the coven and ritual. He's in a rut. Either not strong enough or not ambitious enough to get out of it."

Sam pushed up from the hearth. "Great. Another one then, I'm a demon magnet!" Bitterness roughened his voice as he stalked toward the front window.

"Sam…"

Sam flung out his hand to cut Dean off. "Don't! Don't tell me it's not my fault!" He turned his back on his brother and found himself staring at his own reflection. He let his forehead fall against the cold glass and struggled for control.

"Damn it." Dean muttered. He turned to Abby, forced the emotion out of his voice. _"_So the demon's going to go for the switch tomorrow night?"

"Yeah, we're pretty sure he is, especially since you guys showed up. The revenge angle would be too much of a kick for him to pass up."

"What better way to screw with Dad," Sam growled, "…than to take the body of his son for the next fifty years."

When Sam turned to them, it was with a snarl. "So, what? You two think I'm going to stay locked safe in here while you go hunting tomorrow?"

Abby and Dean looked at each other. Sam knew that that was exactly what they wanted him to do.

"No way." He was pacing again. "There's no way that's gonna happen. I've got to find this thing and put it down. For the past two weeks I haven't slept without him in my head." He raked fingers across his scalp. "There aren't words to make you understand how that felt! When we know where it is and how to stop it, I'm there." He thrust a finger toward his brother. "Dean, don't you even think about trying to stop me!"

For a moment Sam and Dean faced off. Dean glared at his baby brother; all six feet four inches of him tensed for a fight. _Crap, what do I think I'm gonna to do? _Sam was too big to lock in a closet and would probably kick his butt if he tried it. Dean dropped his chin to his chest and took a step back.

"Yeah, ok. I get it. Sit down, Sam." They locked eyes again; defiance still burning in Sam's. "Come on, man." Dean said gently. "We're not finished yet."

Dean watched Sam's muscles uncoil; saw the breath he'd been holding blow out as he dropped his gaze. The boys settled back in front of the fire.

Abby settled back too with a sigh of relief. _Sheesh, I'm not used to having this much testosterone floating around in my house. It'll probably max out the wards so that the next slightly grumpy person who steps into my yard gets zapped._ With a grimace and a shake of her head she picked up her journal. "So, you're both ready to get back to work?" She got a sheepish nod from Sam and a "Duh" look from Dean as if nothing had happened.

"Ok. It'd really help if we knew the demon's name. I've got a short list, but I haven't been able to nail it down."

"Wait a second," Sam said. "Dean, you remember in Dad's journal there were three names? We found them the day we started for Colorado Springs."

"Yeah, I remember."

"Dad's journal's with my stuff. I'll be right back." Sam left the chair he'd just sat down in and headed up the stairs at a trot.

"Damn it." Dean hissed under his breath when Sam was out of ear shot. "I'd like to tie him to a chair or knock him out, or tie him to a chair then knock him out."

"I know how you feel. But he's right. He has every right to take this demon down himself after what he's been through. I feel the same way. We're just going to have to take precautions and watch his back."

"We? Abby, Sam's my brother. He's all I've got. I've been watching out for him since I was four. You've just met him; both of us. How could you possibly…how can I trust that you'll…"

"That I'd die for him like you would?"

His eyes were hard on hers; his mouth set in a grim line.

"Dean, I've known your dad for ten years. You and Sam have been part of my life for that long, whether you knew it or not" One side of her mouth quirked up. "Granted, neither of you is exactly what I'd pictured. But the real thing; finally having you here feels right, like it should have happened a long time ago."

Abby couldn't explain why she felt the way she did. It was a gift that she didn't want to dissect. She itched to wipe that cynical look off Dean's face with a kiss that would bring back the look she'd seen last night.

"Dean, you can accept the way I feel about you two or not, but know this, and trust it, I would give my life to stop this coven and this demon and keep them from making anybody a victim again."

He looked at her levelly. After a moment his shoulders dropped and he let out a slow breath. "Nobody's going to give their life, but we _will_ stop this damned thing."

Abby nodded.

Sam came back in leafing through the journal. He laid it open on the coffee table. Abby and Dean joined him on the couch and leaned in to get a better look. "Here are the names; Nysrogh, Vetis, Ornias. Any of them on your short list?"

"Oh yeah!" Abby beamed at him. "I know this one, Vetis. That's great. Your dad and I were on the same track there. We've got one of its names. It's a start."

"One of its names? How many's it got?" Dean asked.

"At least three, sometimes more."

"Great."

"One will help." She fingered the twist of silver around her wrist. "I've got a shield spell I've been working on. Even plugging just one name into the spell might give it an extra edge."

She looked up at them. "That good friend I mentioned runs the university library. She's been putting together one of the best occult collections in the country for the last ten years. She'll know where to look for what we need."

"What are you going to tell her we're doing exactly?" Dean asked her warily.

"The truth. She knows what I do."

Sam and Dean looked at each other then back at Abby. Dean's eyes were wide. "She knows?"

"Sure, you don't think I could do this alone do you?" Abby asked, honestly puzzled.

"Well, yeah." Sam explained. "Dad's cardinal rule is, tell no one what we do, ever." Sam had lied to Jessica for a year and half about his family's obsession. It had been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but being up front about ghost busting never worked out well. Their dad had drilled that into them their whole lives.

"Yes, I know about his rule," Abby said. "But Grams and Poppa worked differently."

Dean fought to keep his voice level. "What, it's just that simple? Honesty works for you, but it doesn't for us? It's just a choice you make?"

"Basically, I guess." Abby frowned as she caught the decidedly hostile tone in Dean's voice. She struggled not to get defensive and considered for the first time what the difference really was in those two choices. "I guess it has to do with working from a home base. You stay in one place long enough you learn who you can trust. You build relationships; become part of a community of people who look out for each other. You guys are always on the road; you have to be a lot more cautious. It's different."

Sam still looked skeptical; Dean openly angry, her hackles rose. "Look, I don't tell everyone. I'm not listed in the phone book or anything. Although, I have a wizard friend in Chicago who is, so that's a perfectly legitimate choice too." They looked at her like she was insane. "Ugh! Only three people in Colorado Springs know what I do, ok?" Abby stood and started flicking lamps on around the room. "No, its four people…well five actually, only five!"

"Five, civilians?" Dean still couldn't get his brain around it.

"Civilians? You make it sound like we're some Special Forces unit or something. They're good friends; people I trust. Relax you two. Grams and Poppa operated like this and now I do. It's been working fine for generations."

_One more thing to take on faith,_ Dean thought, blinking a little as his eyes adjusted to the lamp light. He could see by the look on Sam's face that the idea bothered him too. But the bottom line was this wasn't their turf. Abby ran things the way she saw fit no matter how they felt about it.

Sam leaned back into the couch. "Fine, so we have a whole team of experts to draw from." Since he couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice his attempt at putting a good spin on the situation fell a little flat. Dean just arched a brow at him.

"Exactly! Abby responded brightly, ignoring Sam's doubtful tone. "Now all we have to do is figure out where the coven is holed up."

Sam reached for his drawing and turned it over. He'd laid it face down on the coffee table when he'd finished it that afternoon, not wanting to have his nightmare starring up at him every time he passed through the room. "Here's the building from my dream." Abby took it from him and moved a tall, old fashioned floor lamp with a fringed shade closer to the table.

"Do you recognize it?" Sam asked her, after letting her study it for a moment.

"I think so. It looks like the ruin up near Seven Lakes Reservoir. I've heard it was the monastery of some obscure order of monks. I've hiked in there a couple times in the summer. It's pretty inaccessible this time of year because of the snow. We'll find out more about this place at the library too."

"Good, now all we have to do is figure out how we're gonna stop them." Sam said, rubbing a kink out of the back of his neck.

Dean nodded. "Tomorrow's Halloween, we'll have till dark to consult your experts." _And not let Sam out of our sight._ He checked the small wooden mariner's clock on the mantel. It was just after midnight. "Do you put on your ranger hat tomorrow, Abby?"

"No, I always take Halloween off. Always have a lot to do one way or another."

"Good." He turned looking at Sam speculatively. "Uh, do you think we need to do the whole circle conjuring thing again tonight?" He tried to squelch the hint of eagerness he heard in his voice. "I mean, they were beautiful and all, but yesterday you said you thought the house would be enough."

"Wait a minute." Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You saw the circles? The magic circles?"

"Don't get excited. I probably just hallucinated them."

"I don't think so." Abby corrected him with a grin. "You got all the elemental colors right. You probably Saw Sam's aura too."

Dean glanced self consciously over at Sam then glared at Abby. "I guess I noticed it," he mumbled.

"Wow, Dean, that's amazing!" Sam laughed.

Dean looked disgusted. "Oh come on."

"You come on, Dean. You've got abilities. If we've both got 'em, maybe it's just genetics, not my personal curse."

"It was just a fluke." Dean said through clenched teeth.

Abby doubted that was true. Once you found an ability your subconscious started using it on its own. Dean couldn't keep his eyes closed forever.

"Can we all just get some sleep?" Dean said standing abruptly.

"Ok, fine." Sam stood too and looked at his brother still a bit amazed, but smart enough to know the subject was closed for tonight. "And I say, no circle. Let's let the house do its thing. I'm willing to take the chance."

Abby lifted her chin and smiled, letting the certainty in her eyes lend weight to the words. "I know you'll be safe, Sam."


	9. Chapter 9, Daymare

**AN: ****I have a disclaimer for a nod in this chapter. I did not create the wizard Harry Dresden, Jim Butcher did. If you haven't gotten to the book store or the library to read one of Jim's series, don't wait, go now.**

The Chant

The master raged!

Pain flowed through his veins like molten lead. The one beside him collapsed retching.

The lure was lost, hidden from the master's sight and there was little time left.

He went rigid again with another lash of his master's voice. Every inch of his body trembled; rivulets of sweat ran between muscles bulging with the urgent need to run or fight, but frozen in place by his master's will.

They'd chanted, searching for hours; days? They poured their souls into the chant. But they hadn't reached the lure. It disappeared, escaped. Without the lure, the master's vessel would be lost. That possibility was beyond imagining.

As suddenly as the burst of rage had begun, it ended. He dropped gasping to the stone. Drained nearly to lifelessness, his body curled into a ball. Tremors spasmed through limbs. The automatic drag and release of the diaphragm was his only movement. Time hung suspended in the frigid, inky blackness.

Then slowly his lips formed words; small twitches barely shaping the air that left his lungs. The chant. Rough hands dragged his face around, pressed a cup to his lips spilling cold, stale water down his throat. He choked and sputtered, but found voice.

The master was merciful; he must not fail.

Fingers scrabbled for purchase; knees drew in. He heaved his torso up to kneeling and pressed his forehead into the rough stone. The chant grew stronger. The one next to him joined; he felt the power hum through his body again.

They would not fail; they would find the lure again and bring it to heel.

**Chapter 9**

The trio rose early with a sense of purpose. Urgency and optimism hurried them through breakfast and out the door.

Sam stepped on to the porch. The sun was just rising over the horizon straight ahead. He squinted, eyes watering in its soft, white light. A chilly breeze brushed his cheek and made him glad for all the layers of clothing Abby'd insisted they wear.

Abby and Dean headed for the gate. Sam shook his head and grinned. She looked like an L.L. Bean pinup girl; Dean, he had to admit, looked pretty GQ this morning in a scruffy kind of way. Abby reached out and hooked a finger around one of Dean's. His brother didn't pull away. _Unbelievable,_ he thought, smiling.

Sam hadn't been outside the house in two days. He watched his breath plume as he sighed savoring the sweet smell of pine on the crisp, clean air. He looked at the mounds of tangled, dry grasses with new curiosity and a little wonder. Abby said they protected the house and him. Their power had to be so organic that he at least, couldn't detect it working. It was hard to wrap his head around, but he'd slept again last night, undisturbed by twisted dreams.

"You comin'?" Dean called from the gate, shattering the stillness.

Sam smiled, trotted off the porch and down the walk. The screech of the Impala's doors ripped away the last of his Zen moment and set his mind on the path of the job they had to do.

He put his hand on the gate and stepped through.

Sam's breath huffed out hard and fast. His heart lurched to a gallop as a smothering weight settled over him. Skin crawling, he forced shallow breaths in and out through clenched teeth. Instinct, like a panicked animal diving for the safety of its den, turned him around. Dean's voice stopped him.

"Sam. You forget something?"

Leaning heavily on the gate, eyes squeezed shut, Sam fought down panic. His stomach twisted. A sudden wave of nausea threatened to empty his breakfast onto his boots. He gulped air as thick as pudding and slowed his breathing.

Yeah, he'd forgotten something. This is what he'd been living with before they'd gotten to Abby's.

_Damn, shake it off!_

If he was going to stop the bastards doing this to him, he had to be out here in it. Dean and Abby couldn't know. He wasn't sure he'd have the strength to refuse their attempts to convince him to stay inside the gate, safe from this…_son of a bitch!_

"Sam? You ok?"

"I'm fine. Gate didn't latch." He forced himself around. "You two figure out which car we're takin'?"

"Mine." Abby said with a smirk. When Sam shot a questioning look his way, Dean shrugged.

"We've got a few stops to make and she knows her way around town."

"And he'd never let me drive the bat mobile." A wry smile softened the disdain in Abby's voice.

Sam shook his head partly at his brother and partly to shake off the fog that had drained the color from the morning. Hadn't it been bright and sunny just seconds ago? He walked to the car trying to hide his wobbly stride by brushing non existent dust off his jeans.

Sam folded his long legs into the back seat of Abby's Wrangler as best he could. With his knees already half way to his chest, he barely resisted the urge to curl up into a ball and whimper. He looked around for some distraction and found that he had a traveling companion.

On the seat beside him was the biggest tackle box he'd ever seen. "Abby, you do a lot of fishing?" he asked.

"Some. Why?" She glanced at him in the rear view mirror. "Oh, my tool box. That's not fishing gear. It's my hunting stuff."

Dean turned eagerly. "Open 'er up. Professional curiosity," he said unapologetically.

Sam caught Abby's eye in the rear view mirror. "May I?"

"Sure." She chirped. Then the happy voice grew an edge. "Just don't touch anything."

The box looked old; probably hand made. The wood was stained a deep green and sanded to silky smoothness that invited his touch along the lid. Dents and scratches meticulously sanded and refinished reminded Sam of their car. This box had been lovingly repaired many times.

Sam raised the lid. His brother let out a low whistle. It was like looking at pirate's treasure; a highly organized pirate's treasure.

Like Abby's garden, the box held labelled compartments. Dried herbs, flowers, even bundles of twigs filled the top shelf. As they drove through a treeless spot on the road, the low-slanting sun sparked off crystals. Sam squinted at red, blue, deep green beauties. For all he knew there were thousands of dollars in precious gems here.

Little plastic packets of powders nestled in the third tier, labeled and sardined into alphabetical rows: catspaw root, lizard skin, ox bone, and cross road dirt. That last one rang a bell. They'd used it once. Sam winced at the memory. His eyes widened as he read the labels for graveyard dirt, arsenic, and corpse ash. He pointed these out to Dean who gave a barely perceptible shrug and glanced sideways at Abby as she drove.

The large bottom compartment was the only one not as spiffy as a military barracks. It looked a lot like what they carried in their trunk, minus the guns... _Wait._

"Abby?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you carry a squirt gun with your hunting gear?"

"Holy water. That little model has an accurate range of about ten feet."

"Hmmm." Dean reached for the little florescent pink, plastic weapon.

"Ah-ah!" Abby said. "Don't touch."

Dean withdrew his hand with a speculative frown. Sam knew he'd file the holy-water-squirt gun trick away for later.

A dagger with a beautifully ornate handle drew both boys' attention. It was the one Abby'd used last night to cast the circles. "The dagger looks old. Where'd you find it?" Sam asked, resenting just a little the need to keep himself from picking it up.

"It _is_ old. It was my grandmothers and her mother's before her."

"It never belonged to your dad?" Sam had wondered last night if the hunting business had skipped a generation in Abby's family.

"No." Abby said with a laugh. "Dad chose a different line of work. He was an art museum curator in Kansas City. Definitely not cut out for hunting."

"And your grandparents were ok with that?" Sam asked with his eyes on Dean.

"Sure. They wanted him to do what he loved. Hunting isn't something you can be forced into. If your heart's not in it, it'd get you killed."

He kept his eyes on his brother until Dean looked away.

Sam closed and latched the hunting box. He stared out the window at his reflection superimposed on flashes of strip malls, gas stations and parks. _Dean__'ll never get it, _he thought. They were good at their job; Dad had made sure of that, but Sam didn't believe they were fated to do it for the rest of their lives. He'd make his own choices, eventually go back to real life, figure out how to put the pieces together without Jess. Dean was going to have to let him.

Sam pressed a hand against his stomach as a wave of vertigo tumbled his insides. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the glass.

"We're here," Abby said. They'd stopped in front of a brick building in old downtown Colorado Springs. Glass doors sported a sign with shiny brass letters that read, "Waycott Place Lofts." The old building had been restored to trendy new life.

"This is where my friend Liz and her husband live. Liz is the Picasso of pharmaceuticals," Abby said, closing and locking the car door. "She knows more about herbs and potions than I ever will. It's her art form." Abby stopped and waited.

Sam walked past his brother. "Come on, man." Dean hesitated, but finally followed.

Abby's shoulders relaxed. "Liz'll come up with some non-lethal weapons; something that'll neutralize the coven _without _permanent damage." She gave Dean a hard look.

He opened his hands at his sides. "What? Why are you looking at me?"

Abby just shook her head. "Come on, they live on the fourth floor."

Sam wondered if an apartment could have the same wards Abby's house did. The shrubs and flowers along this walk looked like typical urban landscaping to him, nothing obviously magical. "Abby, is your friend Wiccan too? I mean, if that's not too personal a question."

"No, it's ok. Liz is pretty open about it. She's a member of my coven."

"Whoa, hold up." Dean took Abby's elbow and stopped her just as they reached the door. "You're a member of a coven?"

"Dean it's a whole different thing than the Angels of the Nine. Ku Klux Klan members and Methodists both call themselves Christians, but they're nothing alike." She sighed as she saw the doubt still on Dean's face. "Liz and I, and the others in our coven got together because we're on a similar spiritual path. We support each other, get together at holidays, study together, that kind of thing."

"No human sacrifices?" Dean asked.

"Absolutely not." Abby looked at him levelly. Dean nodded his satisfaction.

Sam found himself fidgeting as they waited after Abby rang the bell. He longed to get inside that building. He surreptitiously rubbed at the ache that had started between his eyes and attempted to shake off the near desperate need._ Her wards might not be strong enough to protect me. Hell, she might not even have any wards; this is just a condo._ He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders prepared to endure it if he had to.

"That you, Abby?" A tinny voice erupted from the speaker at a volume that set Sam's frayed nerves gangling.

"Yep, all three of us actually."

"Yahoo! Come on up."

Sam hesitated, anticipating disappointment and relief both at once. He stepped in and let the door close behind him. The entry hall was wide and bright. The original plank floors and brick walls reminded Sam that this might not have been a generations-old home, but it was an old building. It must have some mojo because the torment he was feeling sank to a tolerable level. Things were definitely looking up. He sighed, grateful for even a little relief.

They walked into a double wide elevator that must have been used for freight back in the day. The bit of relief Sam felt had him hoping for more once inside Liz's apartment.

Dean glanced sideways at him and narrowed his eyes, "Hey, you getting claustrophobic? We'll be there in a sec."

Sam dropped the arms he'd crossed tightly against his chest and forced himself to relax.

"You all right?" Dean asked. Abby glanced around too.

Sam muttered, "I'm fine." The doors slid open.

Abby led them to a jarringly purple door that swung open before they could knock.

The hallway exploded...

Pink tinted hair, bright blue eyes, hot pink lips split in a dazzling smile. The woman's outstretched arms shethed in multi-colored gauze engulfed Abby in a hug. Her trim, muscular legs were clothed in robin's egg-blue pants, her feet shod in bright yellow flip-flops. It wasn't until she'd pulled away from Abby that Sam noticed the volleyball under the blouse. Liz was pregnant and glowing with it. Everything about her was round and soft; even her voice came out with the soft rounded vowels of a Georgian accent. He glanced at Dean and saw his brother trying hard not to match Liz's hundred watt smile.

Liz grabbed both boys' hands and pulled them across her threshold. Sam exhaled with relief strong enough to leave him breathless. His burden melted away.

Abby stepped back, "Liz, these are John's sons Dean and Sam Winchester."

_John's sons?_ Sam thought. Did everybody in Colorado Springs know their dad?

"Oh, it's so great to finally meet you two. Abby's told me so much about you. Come on in, make yourselves at home," Liz carolled.

Plants, potted and hanging, flowering and leafy, framed three huge arching windows dividing a long, exposed brick wall. Tiny seedlings in equally tiny pots filled ledges and corners. A fireplace with long stucco chimney rose next to a glowing glass block wall. Judging by that glow the room behind it was full of windows too. A terrarium, that's what it felt like; a beautiful, verdant little ecosystem under glass with Liz its flowering centerpiece. Sam turned his face toward the light and soaked up the good vibe like a balm. Their hostess took their jackets, the lively flow of chatter never stopping.

"Get comfy, boys." Liz gestured to the long, white leather couch that Abby had already plopped down on. "Can I get anybody anything? I've got every organic tea known to man or woman, sparklin' water, juice?"

"No thanks, Liz." Abby shifted on the couch a little uncomfortably. "I hate to say it, but we're kind of in a hurry today."

"What? You come in here with the infamous Winchester brothers, who I've been hearin' about for years, but never believed really existed until today and you tell me y'all are in a hurry?" She gazed intently at each of them, her expression growing stormy.

"I said I hated to say it," Abby murmured.

"Abby!" Liz's voice was a whine of frustration.

"Liz, I'm sorry! You know it's Halloween."

Liz glared for one more moment then in a mercurial switch let out a huge sigh, dropped her hands off her hips. "So, right down to business, huh?"

Abby nodded apologetically.

"Well, shoot." She pouted her peppermint pink lips. "We'll just have to save the long, slow gettin' to know each other for your next visit." She came around and sat next to Abby, her filmy maternity blouse settling around her like flower petals. "What's up? How can I help you?"

Abby took a deep breath. "We're going after the coven."

Liz's eyes widened. "Tonight?"

Abby nodded. Liz's lips tightened into a thin, pink line. She looked away. "I _really _wanted to be in on that one." Her hands rose to her mounded belly and her frown deepened.

"I know," Abby replied quietly.

Liz sighed, gave her belly a reassuring pat. "But it's just not to be." She looked up. "I'll make myself useful though. What do you need me to do?"

Abby smiled, sympathy and relief on her face. "We need a powder or a potion; something that'll put the coven recruits down without hurting them."

Liz batted her eyes. "What's wrong with hurting them? At the best they're stupid for getting involved with a demon and at the worst they're up to their eyeballs in evil anyway. They deserve what ever they get."

"Yes!" Dean said. "Thank you, Liz. Excellent point. Dad had the right idea the first time. Who needs a potion when you have a baseball bat?"

"As anxious as I am to help y'all out, I have to agree with Dean."

"Liz!" Abby scolded.

"Dean, they're innocent human beings," Sam said.

Dean snorted.

"Ok, maybe not innocent, but definitely victims. And how can we tell which ones deserve the bat which ones don't?"

"You're too soft hearted, Sam," Liz said. "Besides, the innocent ones will welcome being hit with a bat if it means escaping whatever the demon's been doing to them for the past several months."

Dean pointed at Sam, "You know that's right."

"We're not going in with bats!" Abby had her ranger voice on full force. "Can you come up with something less violent or not?"

"Fine, fine, of course I can put somethin' together." Liz's brows drew down. "Hmmmmm. Let's take this into the lab, shall we?" She hopped up off the couch with grace belying her condition and marched swiftly to the door in the glass block wall. The loose sleeves her blouse fluttered behind her. She gestured impatiently. "Come on, now."

Once they'd all filed in, Sam looked around. Where were the cob webs and dank dripping stone walls? Where was the hunch-backed assistant; the black cat? He could hardly believe that this sunny room was a witch's inner sanctum.

Dean sidled up to him. "Lab, huh?"

"Yeah, think Avon; not Frankenstein."

Dean nodded with a grin.

Liz, one hand on her hip the other lightly pinching her chin, scanned narrow shelves filled with jars that lined three walls of the room from floor to ceiling. She muttered as she picked up one after the other, read the labels and either placed them carefully back on the shelf or passed them to Abby to be deposited on a large, white lab table. As she worked, Sam trailed along behind her checking out the supplies.

"You won't be able to force anything down their throats I don't suppose?" Abby glared disdainfully at her. "Well I was just askin! It's goin' to have to be somethin' they can breathe then. Somethin' fast and easy to carry." She stopped and pinched at her chin some more. Suddenly her eyes lit. "I'm a genius! I've got the perfect things. I knew I'd saved these for a reason." She went up on tip-toes reaching for a box on one of the top shelves. Sam moved up beside her and easily handed the box down. With a little whoof of relief, Liz's heels touched the ground. "Why thank you, Stretch. Just put that on the table with all the other stuff."

Sam looked into the small wooden box. Several brightly colored bottles that'd fit in his palm, sparkled in the light streaming in from the window. Dean came up beside him, peered in and picked up a slender frosted-glass bottle. He pulled off the elegant gold cap revealing a spray button, which he pushed. He jerked back and coughed, batting his hand as a fine mist of perfume puffed into his face.

"Dean put that down! We're gonna have to mark the spray direction on those so ya'll won't be puttin' yourselves to sleep."

Sam smiled as Dean put the bottle back in the box like it might go off on its own.

Abby read the labels of the jars she'd collected on the table. "Sugar, rain water, soot, feathers…"

"And last but not least…" Liz plunked a big bottle of vodka down amongst the supplies. "That ought to be about enough." She brought a mortar and pestle out from a shelf under the table and handed it to Dean. "Dean, take a spoonful each of the sugar, soot and feathers and grind them up as fine as you can get them, ok?"

"Sure." Dean took the tools uncertainly, but started opening jars. "How's all this stuff supposed to knock somebody out?"

"You're gonna do one of Harry's concoctions aren't you?" Abby had a wicked grin on her face. Liz answered with the same.

"Yeah. He showed me last year when Darryl, my husband," Liz added for Sam and Dean's benefit, "…and I went up to Chicago for that Star Wars convention."

"Harry who?" Sam asked. "And how can I help here?"

Abby who was lighting a Bunsen burner while Liz measured out other ingredients turned to him. "Uh, light four candles. Put them at the compus points marked in the circle on the floor there." She reached over to a shelf behind her and handed him candles and a book of matches. "Harry Dresden is a wizard friend of ours; very talented."

"Way out of our league." Liz added "But a really nice guy. You two should look him up if you're ever hunting in Chicago. He's in the yellow pages."

"What, under "wizard"? Dean asked sarcastically.

"What else?" Abby tossed him the answer as she worked as if a wizard listed in the yellow pages was as ordinary as plumbers or dentists.

The smile melted off Dean's face. "Dresden, sure," he muttered. "You never know when you're gonna need a wizard."

Liz pulled out a small black cauldron and set it on a stand over the Bunsen burner. She poured in a generous splash of vodka. Sam got the candles lit and came to stand next to Dean.

"You've pulverized that stuff about enough, Dean. Now put it all in the pot with the vodka."

Dean carefully added his powder as Liz stirred.

Sam had to smile at the scene. Modern lab, two beautiful young witches, one an expectant rainbow, and his brother, huddled together over a Bunsen burner and a black cauldron. A true Kodak moment.

"What are you smiling at, Stretch. Come over here and I'll give you a potions lesson. Just like professor Snape, huh?" She got blank looks from the Winchesters. "J.K. Rowling?"

Sam's head came up. "The author…right? I don't know that professor though."

Liz shared an incredulous look with Abby who asked, "Don't you two ever read? Go to the movies?" The boys hung their heads. "That's just sad."

"Dean," Liz said, "you asked how our little cocktail is gonna work. Well, as Harry explained it to me - that's Dresden not Potter - each ingredient stimulates one of the senses and aligns that sense to the purpose of the spell." Dean's jaw went slack and all of the intelligence left his face. Liz harrumphed. "For instance, feathers stimulate the sense of touch and invoke the feel of feather pillows, good for sleeping on, right?" Dean nodded uncertainly. "Soot stimulates sight. It invokes the blackness of night; a very nice time for sleeping."

"I think I'm getting it. Sugar's gotta be for taste, so I'm guessing…sweet dreams?"

Liz beamed at him like he was her prize student. "Exactly!"

Dean tried to stifle a grin. "How can we add a sound to…"

Liz picked up one of the little bowls and turned it around to show them the label, "rain water". She pulled an extra large eye-dropper from a drawer and drew a couple inches of rain into the tube, then gave the bulb a gentle squeeze over the now bubbling cauldron. _Rain drops _plopped into the cocktail.

"Ahhh, there's nothin' I like better than to fall asleep to the sound of a rain storm," she said with her eyes closed. "And last but not least, you boys take a whiff of this." Dean and Sam both leaned into the gently steaming pot. "What do you smell?"

"Cheap vodka and wet chickens." Sam grimaced.

"Right. What's better than a little vodka nightcap to send you off to a good night's sleep?"

"Ok." Sam said, "I get the idea, but you can't tell me this will actually put somebody to sleep. I mean we're standing here breathing it and we're not nodding off."

"It'll work. You'll see. Abby, grab that little funnel and the coffee filters behind you. You boys get the tops off the bottles. Just dump the perfume in the sink over there and give the bottles a little rinse."

Everyone followed directions and soon the bottles were full and sitting in the center of the lab table.

"You sure this is gonna be enough?" Dean asked.

"This'll be plenty. One spritz per customer should do it." Liz turned to Abby. "Are these guys up to helping with this spell, or should we send them out to the living room to wait?"

"Hey, I did fine last night. I'm stayin." Dean said, mildly indignant.

Abby turned a coy look on Liz. "Dean_ was_ pretty impressive last night."

Liz's brows went up. "Well, well."

Sam hid a smirk. He could almost swear Dean blushed.

"They'll both be able to contribute," Abby said.

"Gooood! This is gonna be fun. Everybody grab a compass point on the circle. The baby and I'll be East, Abby, South. You boys pick West or North."

Abby directed them, "You're North Sam, over here by me. Dean, stand by Liz." Sam and Dean crossed past each other and took up their assigned spots.

"All right. Check us out Abby. See if we're harmonizin'."

A disturbing thought suddenly occurred to Sam. "You're going to use your Sight?

"Yeah, to make sure there isn't a more powerful arrangement to start the spell."

Sam shifted a bit. He definitely felt the effects of Liz's wards. They were holding off what he was beginning to think of as the daymare. But if Abby could see harmony, he wondered if she'd detect the off-note he still felt in the background like a painful buzzing in his ears.

Abby exhaled slowly, getting centered. She turned to Liz and Dean, her gaze lingering on each of them only a moment. As she faced Sam, he had to forced himself to keep eye contact. After what seemed like five minutes under her scrutiny, a small crease mared her forehead. She blinked, her eye brows rose with a silent question. Sam stayed still.

She'd seen something. A quick glance at Dean told Sam that his brother was beginning to suspect too. _Crap._

"I'll cast a circle like last night," Abby said quietly.

"Abby, my wards are almost as strong as yours here. I think we'll all be…"

Abby touched Liz on the shoulder, "It's just a precaution, a little extra zap that's all."

Liz looked from Abby's face to Sam's then back again. "Sure. Can't hurt."

The sympathetic smile she turned on him then was almost more than Sam's tattered pride could take. Abby passed behind him as she started around the circle and ran her hand lightly across his tense shoulders. She spoke the circle summoning as she walked, her voice low and rythmic.

_Damn it!_ _All I need is another babysitter._ Did nobody believe he was capable of taking care of himself? He clenched his jaw in frustration. Then Abby closed the circle.

The nagging buzz in his ears abruptly cut off. He nearly gasped. Silence. Peace. Again, he'd gotten used to the torture, hadn't even noticed it until it was gone. He looked up to meet Abby's gaze, the question in her eyes again. He gave her the barest nod.

"Are we ready?" Dean asked him.

"Yeah, let's finish this."

"Ok, here's the way it'll go, I'll speak the spell," Liz said. "All you boys have to do is open yourselves up and push a little will into the words. Relax, take a deep breath…" She looked at them pointedly. "…Right now."

"Oh, sorry." Dean rolled his shoulders. Sam worked out the kinks in his neck then they both inhaled long, slow breaths.

"Ok. I hope this tiny little spell can hold all the magic in this circle. Remember, focus on the words, focus on the potion, focus on our intent. Here we go." Liz began to speak in a lilting, musical voice.

"Eye lids grow heavy, vision blurs

Ears fill with cotton, sweet silence purrs

Breath comes slow from way down deep

Breathe this potion, welcome sleep

Dream sweet dreams, safe from harm

Safe from demon's grasping arms."

The little pile of crystal bottles in the middle of the table... started to glow.


	10. Chapter 10, Smoky Quartz & Garnet

Chapter 10 (edited _again_ and re-posted, 1.7.2011)

A surge of magic like a spring breeze strong enough to tug a kite into the air, flowed into the middle of the table lifting the bottles and making them dance. Minuscule comets drifted and faded like errant sparks from a campfire. The impromptu coven stared open-mouthed. A chorused "_Ooooooh"_ escaped them as the excited potion slowly lowered the bottles to the table. There was a moment of breathless silence. Then an explosion of giddy laughter.

"That was incredible!" Abby beamed.

Sam grinned.

"That was better than fourth of July in Robert E. Lee Park back home!" Liz agreed.

"THAT…that was better than sex!" Dean gasped.

Liz looked up at him sharply then her face took on a dreamy expression. "Mm-hmmm. Maybe," she drawled. She looked at Abby through half lidded eyes. "But it's not better than magic and sex all tangled together."

Abby returned a slow smile.

The confused, then stunned looks on Sam and Dean's faces had the girls shrieking with laughter again.

Saying goodbye to Liz took a good ten minutes with many hugs, last minute instructions and promises to come back and visit longer. She also let them know that she and her husband had registered at Babies-R-US.

The three hunters, buoyed by the spell's after-glow chattered as they took the stairs unable to tolerate a two minute wait for the elevator. They burst out the front door at a fast walk.

Sam dropped to his knees.

Dean, already half-way down the sidewalk, turned at the sound of a groan and saw his brother vomit into the grass. Two giant steps brought him to Sam's side, Abby right behind him.

"Sam! What the hell's wrong?"

"Damn it!" Sam gasped weakly.

"Tell me what's going on." Dean could feel his own stomach clench. The helpless frustration of having no solid enemy to pound left him trembling.

"It's getting stronger."

"What's getting stronger, Sam?" Abby asked gently. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped the film of sweat from Sam's pale face.

"The daymare." Sam rubbed the back of his neck where a piercing ache pulsed up the side of his head. Abby and Dean stayed still. "It hits me all at once. It's passing in and out of warded buildings that..." He looked up to see if they understood and grimaced. _Ah, damn._ He couldn't stand the sympathy and anguish in their faces. Knowing that he was spreading this wretchedness around made it that much worse. And now he was going to have to deal with Dean. He gulped and fell back against the building trying to keep his stomach from crawling back up his throat again. "The feeling lifts, sometimes completely; like at your place, Abby. Then when we leave it hits me like a freight train. Before we got to Colorado Springs it'd been coming on so slowly that I didn't realize what was happening. I just put it down to sleep deprivation. It wasn't till I walked out your gate this morning that I..." A cruel stab of pain forced him to stop talking or let out a moan.

Dean squeezed his shoulder hard, waited till he'd started breathing again then asked, "When you turned back this morning?"

"Yeah. I almost rabbitted back to the house."

"Damn it, Sam." Dean growled.

Sam struggle to stand. His knees felt like water. "I can handle it, Dean. If I just stay out of warded places, I get used to it, more or less."

"More or less! You can barely stand up!" Dean rose at Sam's side inch by inch. "We're heading back…"

"No way!"

"Stop it, both of you! We're not having this argument again." Abby glared levelly at each of them. A breeze blew a stray curl across her face. She hooked it with a finger and pulled it aside, her eyes still silencing them both. Then she turned to Sam, "You should have told us."

"Abby, what good could it do? I've just got you both worried over something you can't stop."

"You're wrong." She laid a hand on his cheek. "Sam, I might be able to help. I'm going to check you out; see if I can tell what's going on." She waited for his nodded permission then closed her eyes and felt for that nexus of power in the middle of her forehead. She opened her Sight.

Abby's eyes went wide. Her lips parted in a silent "_oh"._ Sam felt her fingers dig into taut muscles at the back of his neck. He winced.

"Abby?" Dean asked, not certain that he wanted to know what the look on her face meant.

Instead of responding she said, "I've got to get something from my box." She turned and sprinted back to the car.

Dean checked Sam out from head to toe. His brother was pale; hands crammed into the pockets of his jeans, hunched against the building, still breathing too fast, a film of sweat glistening on his face. He looked…dimmed, sunken in shadow even with the sun shining down on them. _Damn it, s__hort of chloroform and handcuffs, he's not gonna go back. _Dean crammed his own trembling hands into his pockets and leaned against the building beside his brother. "Sam, tell me all of it."

Sam glanced sideways. His hands balled into fists in his pockets. He couldn't do this alone anymore, but how could he describe this suffocating siege?

He swallowed and looked past his brother, huffed out a chuckle with no humor in it. His voice came out a rough whisper. "It's taking every ounce of will power I have right now to keep from flinging that door open and sprinting back up to Liz's warded apartment." He closed his eyes. "It's like I'm stripped and staked out." His mouth was dry and tasted foul. He licked his lips. "Defenseless, totally…. I can feel their rancid touch on my skin. It's obscene…I can't...There's nothing to fight." He gritted his teeth, shook his head.

"I get the picture." The muscles in Dean's jaw clenched. "What do you think they want?"

"God, I wish I knew. Maybe they're softening me up for the ritual." Sam lifted his shoulders trying to loosen the steel band around them then sighed. "I'm scared, Dean."

Dean leaned a fraction of an inch closer to Sam. "Me too." _God, me too, _he thought. "But bein' scared's never stopped us before, right?"

Sam looked up to meet his brother's eyes. No, it had never stopped them. And they'd felt every kind of scared there was since the day their mother died. Their dad had taught them that the difference between a brave man and a coward wasn't the amount of fear, but the way he dealt with it. They dealt with it together, always had. He'd been stupid to try to go it alone. He turned a wince into a smile.

The car door slammed and Abby hurried toward them clutching something in her fist. She stopped, facing the boys and opened her hand. The sun glinted off a sparkling object as it dangled on a thin, black leather sting.

Dean reached for it and stopped it swinging. Two crystal pendants lay in his palm. The larger of the two was a smoky-gray quartz about two inches long, grown into a hexagon with a point at the end. The second crystal was smaller, clear as glass, deep-red glass.

"Crystals, like in the ranger station?" Dean's voice came out with a harsh edge.

"Not exactly like those. These are more deeply focused. They've been worn by humans for decades. The ones in the shop were newbies, uninitialized; kind of like a blank CD."

"What do they do?" Dean asked.

"The smoky quartz is a dark energy sponge. It'll absorb some of what's already tainting Sam. This red one is garnet. It's a shield crystal. It'll bolster Sam's own ability to repel what's coming at him." She looked from one to the other; saw Dean struggling with his doubts, and Sam…Sam just struggling, to stay upright, to keep from vomiting again, keep from weeping; Abby didn't know which.

"Dean, take this side of the string. We're gonna put it around his neck together. Focus again, just like last night. Give the crystals a boost."

Sam leaned forward. Abby was afraid that he'd keep right on going till she saw Dean's other hand brace his shoulder. Sam leaned his forehead onto the side of her neck. She pressed her cheek against his ear and felt his whole body trembling. When her fingers met Dean's and she gathered the string, Abby breathed, "Mother shield him." She heard Dean whisper his own incantation, "Keep the filthy bastards off him!" She knotted the string then stepped back and watched Sam's face.

Sam had closed his eyes as Dean and Abby's hands went behind him. He fought the urge to clutch them both and burrow into the shelter of their arms. He forced himself still. The pendants felt cool and heavy as they dropped against his chest. He heard the murmured words coming from either side of him; the power of anger in Dean's, the power of faith in Abby's. Sam took them in and felt his heartbeat slow. He leaned his head back against the rough brick wall, felt the sun, clean and warm on his face.

The miserable knot in his chest loosened. He took a deep, shaky breath then focused inward to take stock.

The daymare wasn't gone. He could still sense the panicky, caged animal in his gut only now it was a mouse nibbling at his nerves and not a rat gnawing to get out. The fluttery weakness in his knees was fading too. It felt as if the crystal, the smoky quartz, _was_ siphoning off poison, like the suction cup in a snake bite kit. With every noxious bit it removed he felt a little stronger. The garnet must be slowing the incoming crap down to a trickle too. He took another deep breath, opened his eyes and pushed himself off the wall.

"Well? How do you feel?" Dean said, hovering at his side.

"It's manageable."

"Manageable?" Dean frowned.

"Hey, it's a _lot _better. I'm ok." Sam gently, but firmly removed Dean's hand from his elbow and turned to Abby. "Thanks again, Abby."

She gave him a small, relieved smile. "No problem. But promise us something."

"What?"

"Tell us right away if they get to you again; if the feeling gets worse or starts to overwhelm you. Even if you just start having weird thoughts, anything…"

"Ok, ok. I get the idea. I promise." He looked at Dean's narrowed eyes. "I promise!"

By silent but mutual agreement, the subject was closed. They all started up the sidewalk, slowly this time, giving Sam a chance to get his legs under him again. Sam tucked the crystals inside his shirt grateful and more than a little mystified at the power they must have.

"Where to next?" Dean made sure he stayed within reach of Sam as they walked toward the car. The color was back in his brother's cheeks. He didn't have the grayed out look he had when he first collapsed.

"The library," Abby answered him. "We need intel on Sam's drawing, verify the location and find out what turned a holy place dark enough for a demon's purposes."

"You think the building in my dream is a church? That the "holy" you're talking about?" Sam asked as he folded himself into the back seat of the Wrangler again.

"Not necessarily, churches can be pretty unholy places. I mean the mountains. The Rockies have powerful earth mojo. Most people attribute the awe they feel when they see them to the gorgeous scenery, but their beauty is definitely more than skin deep." Abby started the car and pulled away from the curb.

"We felt it," Dean said pulling his seatbelt across his lap. "When we first got here. We got out of the car and POW; knocked us speechless."

"That's it exactly. Force of nature with a capital 'F'. Usually the more untouched or uncivilized an area is the less likely you are to find demon activity. Humans harbor demons, not nature. So for this coven to operate in one of the most remote areas in the park…" She shook her head. "Dr. Q will know."

"Dr. Q? Who's that?" Dean couldn't keep a tiny scowl off his face.

Abby glanced over at him. "Another ally. We need a lot of help today so you guys are meeting everybody who knows what we are and what we do…well almost everybody." She frowned and made a left turn onto a busy four-lane lined with ski rental places and art shops. "Unfortunately, we probably won't have time to stop by Michael's."

"Dare I ask what kind of ally Michael is?" Dean asked.

"Michael is my…defense against the dark arts expert." Abby smiled pleased with her reference, but then glanced at the boys, "I can't _believe_ neither of you has read Harry Potter." She sighed. "Michael is a non-magical weapons master. Swords, knives, silver bullets, flame throwers, you name the beast, he'll know its weakness and make you a weapon. He's the one who came up with my holy-water squirt guns."

"Now that sounds like a guy I'd like to talk to. But what do you mean, non-magical?" Dean asked.

Abby stopped at a light. She turned to Dean. "Well, first of all magic, our kind of magic, doesn't lend itself well to weaponry or violence. It's great on _de_fense, but not easy to use as offensive especially if the act might harm another living being. And second, Michael is…magically challenged. He couldn't cast a spell to save his life. Remember last night when I said that magic is everywhere, all around us?" She got a nod. "Well, Michael is like a magical black hole. It may be in there somewhere, but it ain't comin' out! I've never met anyone like him. He's a great guy, don't get me wrong…"

The rest of the conversation became a comforting background melody to Sam as the car sped up again. Abby's soft, lilting chatter punctuated by occasional deep responses from Dean wove in and out of Sam's focus. He closed his eyes and sun light flashed across his lids as it strobed through the trees along the road. He clutched the pendants in his fists and turned his face to the window. He had no idea whether or not an act of will could boost the pendants' shield power, but he was going to try. He slowed his breathing and concentrated on the protection he so desperately needed. Sam closed his eyes. He imagined the warmth from the sun on his cheek and the comfort he drew from that warmth flowing into the pendants.

In his mind's eye, the crystals glowed. The light spread slowly over his body till he tingled with it. An answering core of energy inside him, just below his heart radiate along with the pendants. The angry buzzing in his head faded. The trapped animal panicking in his gut quieted. Sam opened his eyes. The day was bright again; the dingy fog lifted. Was this magic or will power? He kept his focus on his breath. Maybe he wasn't completely helpless after all. A smiled curled the corners of his mouth.

AN: I researched crystals for this chapter, but I'm no expert. Anybody out there with corrections or suggestions, write me a review. Are there any guys out there reading Coven? Got any comments? Thanks again to all of you, guys and gals, following the story! You're the best!


	11. Chapter 11, Jess

**The Chant**

Sweat drenched the robes pooled around her body on the stone. She relished the sting of it in her eyes and the constant gnawing pain of hunger in her belly. They'd found the lure and the master had returned her to her torment.

She felt the innate evil of the chant; knew it was right that _her_ lips should form the oily words, _her _breath give them life. She imbued each syllable with the blackness that already polluted her soul and knew she could go on forever.

When she faltered, she thought of Brian. She brought back his smile, his teasing wit, his love of growing things. She sought out the most riveting memories, their wedding day, the day she'd announced their pregnancy and the common everyday things; the smell of him after a shower, the way he always entered a room talking, and always touched when he talked. Sweet moments that had given her life.

Until she'd destroyed it all.

The master had revealed the truth of what she really was and what she deserved.

The truth fueled the chant. Blinding, retched, loss fueled the chant! She'd killed him; murdered him and their child. The master had shown her the one true path left to her; explained the uselessness of taking false solace from words like_ accident_. _Asleep at the wheel_ wasn't an excuse that erased her guilt. Nothing could do that. Not even this endless punishment.

She didn't hope for redemption, only emptiness. She spewed her wretchedness out with the chant. She could feel the immense power of it. It clutched relentlessly at the lure and twisted him to the master's will. They would trap the vessel soon. She poured every vile particle of herself out to do it.

Her one small hope was that when it was done; when the master had wrung out all that he needed, she would be empty. She would be nothing; nothing at all.

**Chapter 11**

Dean glanced back to see if Sam was following the conversation and was stunned to find his brother faintly glowing. He blinked. Didn't work. "Uh, Abby? Should he be glowing like that?"

"What?" Abby looked at Sam in the rear view mirror. "Well, wow," she said. "He's figured out how to use the pendants." They stopped at another light. "You guys are really something."

Eye's still on Sam, Dean absently asked, "Why?"

"You shouldn't be able to see it and he shouldn't be able to do it, not without an ounce of training."

"Ah, damn!" He rubbed hard at the middle of his forehead. "Is this gonna to happen a lot?"

"Don't worry about it. It's probably your connection to Sam that opens you up. You haven't noticed anybody else glowing have you?"

Dean thought for a moment. _No, thank God. Only Sam._ He shook his head.

"This could be useful." Abby leaned toward him and whispered. "Sam can be less than forthcoming about what's going on with him, ya know?"

"I heard that." Sam's voice floated dreamily from the back seat.

"Hey Buddha, we're almost there," Dean said. As Sam broke his concentration and dropped the crystals from his hand the glow faded. Dean noticed the grimace. "It's back isn't it?"

"Yeah. The second I stop concentrating."

"The crystals are still helping though, right?"

"Oh yeah. It's manageable. But hey, don't be turning your evil eye on me, ok! It's bad enough you watching me every second without…"

"Hey, you think I want to see you go radioactive?"

"Come on guys, we're here." Abby said. She parked the car at the curb. "Sam, he really can't help it. You'll just have to get used to it. And one more thing, the crystals shield you psychically only. They won't stop bullets so don't let your guard down." She turned sternly to Dean. "You either."

"Ok, Mom." Dean grinned at her and was pleased to see her cheeks flush.

"Ohhh, just get out of my car, we're wasting time."

Sam followed Abby and Dean up the sidewalk fingering the pendants, trying to figure out how to concentrate and walk at the same time.

Dean looked around at the neighborhood. Big, old homes lined the street, their small front yards crowded with generous front porches and huge trees. Gnarled roots erupted out of the ground and sidewalk. Bikes stood chained to porch railings or leaned against houses. Four-wheel-drive vehicles lined both sides of the street. The sidewalks bore the scrapes and gouges of many passes of snow blowers.

Dean pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and shrugged his leather jacket higher. Though the sun was warm on his skin, the breeze that found its way into cuffs and collar had a nasty bite.

The University of Colorado campus had a modern southwest simplicity to it; lots of straight lines and natural stone facades. The sidewalk grew more crowded. The kids looked like preppy types with an "earth child" vibe; lots of hiking boots, oblivious to things that go bump in the night; worried about nothing but midterms and pimples. Backpacks bulging, they all seemed to be in a hurry; off to class or keggers; whatever college students did all day.

It was lunch time and despite the chill, plenty of kids were out in sunny patches on the lawn grabbing a bite, books open on the ground. Dean wondered if Sam envied them.

He felt a familiar pang of regret. It was an old conflict he'd struggled with ever since Sam left for Stanford. His brother had never wanted this life. Sammy and Dad had butted heads about the training, the discipline and the sacrifices as long as Dean could remember.

Dean looked back over his shoulder. Sam still had his eyes fixed firmly on the ground ahead of him; a look of determined concentration on his face.

Dean touched Abby's elbow and stopped the trio. "We need to grab some food." He said and nodded toward Sam.

"Good idea. You hungry Sam?"

Sam looked up at her as if he'd just woken up. "Ah no, not really."

"Come on Sam, you've got to eat something. This may be our last chance to fuel up before things get cookin'." Dean swung around looking for a food source.

Abby pulled him to their right. "This way; the student union is decent. We can grab sandwiches."

The student union was the beating heart of the student body, circulating them in to refuel, then out again in a steady flow. They squeezed through the front doors jostling past a girl in a Cat Woman costume; the old one from the TV show. She had it down too; the big hair, 3 inch heels on thigh-high patent-leather boots. Dean turned and watched her walk away swaying her long black tail. She'd have been disappointed if she'd seen his scowling face.

Halloween had never been the opportunity to extort candy out of the neighbors for the Winchester boys that it had been for other kids. In their household it usually meant a long night with Dad out hunting and Dean nervously guarding his baby brother, tensing every time the doorbell rang. When they'd gotten older they'd tried to get into the spirit with the kids at school, but it always ended up with an argument over what a goblin _really_ looked like or whether ghosts _actually_ looked like people with sheets over their heads. It was like playing soldier after you'd been to war; just not fun anymore.

Inside the building the holiday was in full swing. Skeletons and Jack-o-lanterns festooned the walls. Hand painted signs advertised a smorgasbord of costume parties and haunted houses.

Dean looked around. "I hate Halloween," he grumbled. Abby gave him a sympathetic look.

They got in line at a Planet Sub outlet. The boy making sandwiches had on dark eye-liner, purple and gold striped pantaloons, heavy black boots, and a puffy sleeved shirt with deep V-neck laced up with a leather string. On his head he wore a silk scarf over his short blond hair. Dean hazarded a guess, "Captain Hook?"

"Johnny Depp…Captain Jack Sparrow?" The boy's voice was an impatient whine, as if he'd had to explain his costume a hundred times today already. "They wouldn't let me wear the wig _or_ the beard _or_ the sword. Some kind of health code violation." He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, bummer. Well, you look…neat, anyway." Dean showed the pirate his teeth and turned away with a foot-long meatball sandwich.

Abby glared at a young woman behind her in a ragged black robe, frightening wig, green face paint that included a false nose complete with hairy wart, and a pointy black hat.

The girl's braying laugh breached the surface of the general babble drawing Dean's attention to her and Abby's glare. He leaned over and whispered, "You want me to throw a bucket of water on her? See if she melts?"

A slow grin spread across Abby's face. "You would wouldn't you?"

"Hey, it's what I do."

She considered his offer for a moment, then shrugged. "Nah, she's just ignorant. She believes what movies and fairy tales tell her about witches."

"Up until a couple of days ago, I was right there with her."

"Not any more?"

They were close. He reached up and lightly stroked her cheek with the tips of his fingers. "God, no," he murmured. For a few precious seconds they were the only two people in the room, the din of conversations, clattering silverware and bustle of hundreds of bodies in a hurry faded into the background. Their world spiraled down to the electric contact of cheek and fingertips. Then a student in a…student costume bumped Abby's shoulder and the moment passed.

Abby pursed her lips together then murmured words too low for Dean to hear. A little puff of air left her nose. The student stumbled, a cup of soda toppled on the tray he was carrying. Abby turned guiltily away as the boy looked back trying to figure out what he'd tripped over.

The three of them made their way outside again protectively clutching food and drinks against their chests. Abby had a foot-long salad on a bun. Dean checked Sam; an apple and a Coke.

"That all you gonna eat?"

Sam glanced at the meal in his hands. To be honest, he wasn't sure he could get even that down. The pendants helped with the nausea, but they hadn't brought his appetite back. "Yeah, this is it. Hey, it's an apple. It's probably better for me than what ever you've got dripping down your shirt."

Dean jerked his sandwich out in front of him and, sure enough, the blue shirt he'd put on this morning now had a line of dark red tomato sauce running down it's center like blood from stab wound. "Ah crap!"

"Come on, we might as well sit down for a minute and eat. We can't bring all this food into the library anyway. I've got extra napkins," Abby said helpfully. "And a handy little repel spell I've been working on that might get rid of that stain."

They found a sunny spot in the grass. Sam forced himself to take a bite of apple. It tasted like wax in his mouth, but he was duty bound to keep chewing or face Dean's badgering. He looked over at his brother. With his drink in one hand and sandwich in the other he had his arms outstretched as Abby dabbed at the tomato stains on his chest with a wad of paper napkins and quietly spoke her spell trying not to attract the attention of fellow picnickers. They were both smiling and close enough to murmur comments back and forth in voices too intimately soft for Sam to catch the words.

He looked away, a wistful smile on his lips. Sam remembered those moments. It was a little odd to watch his brother in one. He'd seen Dean with a lot of women. His brother had always kept his guard up until now. Abby seemed to effortlessly slip under it.

Sam closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun, it felt good, clean against his skin. He slowly relaxed and reached for the pendants around his neck letting his mind drift. Memories of Jess floated like bubbles rising to the surface of a quiet pool. Vivid, sensual snapshots burst and slipped away; her laugh, her face in concentration bent over a text book, the scent of her breath just after a kiss.

Had it been two months? Most times he struggled to bring back the details of her face, the feel of her body under his hands. Her physical presence in his mind was fading like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, battered slowly into a swirling wash of color and emotion. But other times, like now, he could close his eyes and breathe in the scent of her. He craved these memories and opened himself to them, allowing her presence to fill him.

Abruptly, the moment shifted. A chill sent goose flesh tingling up his arms.

Jess was beside him on the grass.

Sam felt the brush of her long blond hair as she leaned toward him. He felt the feather touch of her lips against his ear as she whispered… urgently.

The hair on the back of his neck stirred._ She's here! _

Sam trembled; equal measures of yearning desire and horror pumping his system full of adrenalin. He drew in a shallow gasp. Her murmured sounds wouldn't coalesce into words. He forced himself still; strained to listen past the hammering of his heart. _Focus!_ Sam barely breathed.

_Dean…. _His brother's name stood out in her whispered rush. _Dean… _Again. Frustration threatened to shatter his concentration. What about Dean? Then, …_Vetis Garanth Izar_ … With these words the warm touch of her breath turned dry-ice cold and the demon's name entered his brain like a shard of glass. The contact broke.

She was gone.

A moan, part pain, part newly rent grief pressed up out of his chest. Sam clamped his hand over his ear and flung open his eyes. He found himself still sitting on the grass, flanked closely by Abby and Dean, the crystal pendants clutched tightly in his other fist. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Her loss was so raw again that he felt the wound must be visible; there must me a gaping hole in his flesh, a limb missing. Judging by the look on Dean's face, his brother could see it.

"You were glowing again," Dean said, his voice strained. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the nearest group of students sharing the grass was paying them no mind.

Abby squeezed Sam's shoulder. "Something happened."

Sam nodded, not yet trusting his voice. He reached toward his Coke can on the ground and noticed how badly his hands were shaking. Dean picked it up and handed it to him, making sure he had a good grip before he let go. Sam wished it was hot coffee, anything warm, but took a gulp anyway.

_Damn it, what the hell is going on? _Sam thought._ Do I have a target painted on my chest?_ _What is it about me that makes demons and ghosts come calling?  
_

"Sam, what happened?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head then raked his fingers through his hair. "Jess… was here. She spoke to me."

"What do you mean she spoke to you?"

"Spoke! Talked! She sat right here!" Sam glared at his brother, daring him to doubt his word.

"Ok, ok," Dean hissed. "Sam, I'm sorry." He shook his head. "This is just…this is just…Ahhhhg!" _One more damn thing! _Dean flopped down onto the grass. "What did she talk about?"

"You."

Dean's head shot up. He looked at Abby, whose face looked just as stunned, then back at Sam. "Me?"

Sam nodded, exhaustion filling him as the adrenalin seeped away. "You and the demon. Abby, I think she gave me its full name."

It was Abby's turn to flop onto the grass. "Sam, are you sure that it was really Jessica, not more of the daymare?"

"I'm sure!" He'd felt none of that sickening taint until she'd said the name. "Abby, I'm absolutely sure." Dean surreptitiously pushed his brother's hand up and Sam took another gulp of Coke. "I couldn't understand most of what she said. It wasn't that I couldn't hear; she was so close I could feel her lips…" Sam stopped and cleared his throat. "Most of her words were just sounds, no meaning."

"But you said that she…" Dean began.

"Except for your name." He met his brother's eyes. "She said it twice. It was a warning."

"A warning about what?" Dean asked. "Things are gettin' dangerous. We already know that. Heck, Sam, maybe she just wanted to say hello."

"Dean…"

"It must have been the crystals." Abby spoke half to herself. She sat cross legged, on Sam's other side; her hands clasped together in her lap.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked.

"The crystals must have acted like a beacon to guide her to you, Sam. It's Halloween. The veil is thinnest today of all days of the year. The quartz absorbs dark magic. It cleared the way enough for her to see you." One hand moved to rest on Sam's forearm. "The garnet boosts your gifts enough that you could see and hear her too." She paused then went on thoughtfully. "She didn't come for a casual chat though. It's really, really difficult for a spirit to communicate with the living. It hardly ever happens even with a séance."

Abby's hand jumped to his shoulder. "You were lucky, Sam. She gave you a very valuable piece of information." She gave his shoulder an excited squeeze. Her bag was behind her. Abby dug around in it till she came out with a pencil and small spiral notebook which she handed to him. "Sam, knowing the demon's full name could be a powerful tool for us, but it's also extremely dangerous. I don't like you even having it in your head."

Sam pressed his hand against his right ear; it still felt cold. He didn't like having it in there either.

"I want you to write it down for me, but I never, never want you to say it out loud. Got it?"

"Yeah, got it." Sam took the pencil and notebook from her hand and wrote the demon's name onto a blank page. He imagined he was emptying the greasy feel of it down through his hand and out the pencil as he wrote. It helped a little. Abby took the notebook back

"This is going to be very useful." She tucked the book back into her bag and stood. "Come on guys. We still have a lot of work to do."

They picked up crumpled sandwich wrappers, soda cans and dumped their trash in the nearest bin.

Sam didn't protest when Dean grabbed his hand and hauled him to his feet.

Dean noticed with a sinking feeling that Sam never let go of the crystals at his neck now. _How much more can he take? _The need to feel his fingers around the demon's throat made them twitch at Dean's sides. He wanted answers and a plan and he wanted them soon.


	12. Chapter 12, Last Clues in Place

**The Chant**

"The Master chose us! Us, Brother!"

"He bid us call the lure in the language of the light. Do you remember it, Sister?"

"Yessssss, of course, of course I do; from wasted years in the first coven. I remember the language of disappointment, rules… Don't try that…Don't hurt this…Don't touch greatness…Don't! Don't! Don't! No! No! No!"

"Now we know THE TRUTH, Sister. We know the roiling, indomitable mass of the dark."

"The lure defeated the dark?"

"No! It evades us only. It won't listen, Sister."

"We must speak the language it will hear."

"Yes, do you remember?"

"We'll call with pine-bough voices…"

"Yes."

"Speak with burbling snow-melt tongues…"

"Yes."

"Whisper with sun-warmed, wild flower breath…"

"Yes."

"With mountain trail, and open sky, bird song, brook song, creaking pine…ahhhh!"

"Weep, Sister. Send your longing too. Set the hook with desperate yearning for the light. It will emerge from its hole."

"And the dark will take it, Brother."

**Chapter 12**

The Kraemer Library loomed against the backdrop of the mountain range to the west. Its two and a half stories of red brick spread out over half a city block. They walked quickly past a sculpture displayed in front of the main doors that looked like a giant cluster of polished aluminum shitake mushrooms growing out of the sidewalk. Dean thumped one of the stems as they passed. It rang like a brass drum.

The entry's wide row of glass double doors closed behind them like a space station's airlock sealing them into the hushed, bustling environment of the campus library. The smell of pine and wood-smoke ever present in the air outside was replaced by the precisely regulated and filtered air of the buildings huge compressors.

Sam blinked looking around. Long hours of quiet concentration at Stanford had ingrained in him a Pavlovian-like response to libraries. But today, as the door clicked closed his breath hitched in his throat. The faintest sheen of sweat dampened the palm that clutched the pendants.

Dean's palms began to sweat too. Libraries always gave him the insurmountable urge to scream _Another Brick in the Wall _lyrics at the top of his lungs.

It was the damned noise.

Libraries, so intent by design to be silent, only managed to punctuate every muffled voice, every tap of a keyboard, every ruffled page for Dean. Where was the muzak for God's sake? Even symphonic versions of Michael Jackson's greatest hits would be better than this clamorous silence. He puffed out a breath and crammed his hands into his pockets.

When Abby stepped up to the circulation desk and spoke Dean thought she was talking to herself, or casting a spell. It wasn't until he leaned past her and looked down that he saw who she addressed; a little person seated on a high stool smiled up at him.

The dwarf was dressed like every other student on campus only in miniature; chocolate brown sweater, white oxford shirt and jeans. His oversized facial features were handsome; black, wavy hair and neatly trimmed moustache accentuated eyes bright with intelligence and pleasure.

"Ah, my favorite alumnus!" His voice piped clearly over the quiet babble in the library.

"Hello, Charles." Abby returned his smile.

"And you've brought new students with you?"

"No, no just friends. I'm showing them around campus and we couldn't miss the views from the library."

"No, indeed. Best view of the Rockies in all of Colorado Springs." He spread his child-sized arms and by shear force of personality, encompassed the whole city in the gesture.

"Charles, is Dr. Quartermaine in her office?"

He glanced at his watch, typed a short stream into his computer. "She should be, yes. She's not scheduled to teach for another hour. Would you like me to call to be sure?"

"No thanks. We'll just wander up that way. Nice to see you again, Charles."

"You too Abigail," he said over his shoulder then turned efficiently back to the next student in line.

"One of the few people _not_ a member of your coven, I take it," Dean asked.

Abby scowled at him. "No, just a nice guy and a very helpful librarian. He's probably wondered about my taste in books though."

"So who is this Dr. Quartermaine?" Dean asked as they passed long rows of computer terminals occupied by students, several pirates, a couple of aliens and a dead president.

Abby hesitated. "She's a unique person… a fabulous teacher. She worked with my grandparents... and your dad."

Sam's head came up at that. He bumped into Dean whose steps had faltered. Their dad's secret life in Colorado Springs continued to unsettle both of them.

"Dr. Q's been teaching here and running the library's Special Collections for almost fifteen years," Abby said in a whisper over her shoulder. "She's put together an awesome collection of occult texts. Your dad spent time with her whenever he came through town."

Abby led them through a narrow aisle between book shelves and opened a heavy door at the back of the library letting them pass ahead of her into a wide stairwell. They headed up. The walls were hung with canvas panels that sponged up every whisper. Even their footsteps were reduced to quiet taps on the hard rubberized flooring that covered the stairs. They came to a wide landing and Abby pulled open another heavy door. They followed her across a small lobby.

They came to a row of wooden doors along what must have been an outside wall of the library. Abby stopped at the first one and knocked, but didn't wait to be invited, just pushed the door open and poked her head in. "Dr. Q?"

The woman seated at the large polished wood desk was just turning away from a panorama so brilliant that Dean barely resisted the urge to shade his eyes. The contrast, after the hypnotic regularity of the rest of the library, was breathtaking. Floor to ceiling windows framed the bustling streets and low buildings of Colorado Springs spreading up to the foot of the mountain range. Craggy, deep blue on blue peaks towered over the town like a hoard of titans.

Dean pulled his eyes away from the mountains and back to the person who stood and smiled at Abby. She was a strikingly handsome woman; cappuccino skin, intelligent, dark brown eyes. Her short-cropped black hair was sprinkled with grey. Dean guessed her age at somewhere in her late forties. She wore a straight tailored skirt the color of a Hershey bar that molded smoothly around generous curves, and a silky rose colored blouse.

She rounded her desk to embrace the younger woman. "Abby! How nice of you to visit. It's been a month or two hasn't it?" Her voice was deep and silky like her blouse with just a hint of a Jamaican rhythm to the words.

"Since before school started up again, that's for sure."

Abby flashed an excited smile. "Dr. Q, I'd like you to meet John's sons. This is Dean. And Sam's over there hypnotized by your view."

The warm smile on Dr. Quartermaine's face froze in surprise. A crease marred her brow, but she reached across her desk to shake the hand Dean offered. She laid her other one on top of his. Her face softened. "Dean, you have your father's eyes, and the chin of course."

Abby's smile brightened. "That's just what I thought."

"Your father is quite proud of you," Dr. Quartermaine went on. "He speaks glowingly of your skill as a hunter. He says you have even finer instincts than his. I'm very happy to finally meet you." She gave his hand one more firm squeeze then released it.

Dean felt his cheeks warm. A grunt and half smile from his father was high praise. The thought that the first thing out of this woman's mouth was how proud Dad was of him, as if Dean had been a frequent topic of their conversations was disconcerting on many levels. He found he didn't know how to respond. "Uh, good to meet you too."

"And Sam" The sound of his name startled Sam out of his fixation on the mountain range; he turned to Dr. Q blinking. She gave him that same warm smile and extended her hand to him.

"Your father said that you were still away at Stanford the last time I spoke with him; earning your degree in criminal justice I believe. Have you finished then?"

Sam glanced at his brother. The look on Dean's face made him sorry he hadn't been paying more attention to the introductions. One side of his mouth quirked up. "Yeah. Uh, yes. I got my bachelor's degree a few months ago." He shook his head. "I didn't think Dad even knew what I was studying."

"Of course he knew!" Her generous lips pressed into a line and she delicately huffed out an exasperated breath. "How like him, not to let you know. He's a stubborn man; as I'm sure you're both aware. And more than a little obsessed with his work; to the detriment of the most important people in his life I'm afraid."

Something in her voice had Dean wondering if Dr. Quartermaine considered herself one of those people. He glanced over at Sam. He was turning back to the view again apparently not picking up the Mata Hari vibe from Dr. Q. Dean decided he had to be reading too much into it. Then his brother surprised him with an uncharacteristically crass question.

"Just how well do you know our father?"

Abby's brows quirked up and she shared a long look with Dr. Q.

Dean caught the look. Warning bells pinged in his skull.

The professor briefly held each of the Winchesters in a level gaze then said simply, "Quite well."

There was a beat of silence. That phrase managed to convey two things perfectly: first, yes, she meant she knew him biblically and second, the subject was closed, the rest was none of their business.

Dean glanced at his brother to see him finally looking fully awake. A muscle in Sam's jaw jumped. He ducked his head and cleared his throat; a blotchy flush creeping up to his ears.

Dr. Q said quietly. "So your father kept to his decision. He told you nothing about all of us."

"You knew he'd kept us a secret from them?" Abby asked.

"Yes, several years ago we discussed the best way to keep Sam in particular out of the demon's territory until it could be stopped."

_Several years ago?_ How long had this been going on? Dean grimaced and took his turn looking at the view while he struggled with his inner twelve year old. _Grow up Dean! Dad was widowed, not castrated. _

Dr. Q caught Dean's eye. "Obviously something has happened to bring you here despite John's efforts."

"Dad's missing." Dean gritted his teeth, irritation rising, despite his best efforts, at the look of surprise and worry on the woman's face."We got here following leads in his journal. Look, it doesn't matter who knew what or how we got here. We need your help."

"Dean…" Abby began.

"No, Abby." The professor raised a hand. "Dean's right, of course." She looked at him, her eyes a little sad, but resigned. "You owe me no explanation for why you're here. Nor do you need an excuse to finally be among us." She sighed. "All of you please sit down. I'll be happy to render any assistance I can." She gestured to the small sofa and leather chair that faced her desk as she again took her seat behind it.

"We need to know everything you can tell us about this place." Dean reached over to Sam's jacket pocket, pulled his drawing out and carefully unfolded it on the desk.

Dr. Q pulled a pair of wire rimmed glasses out of her desk drawer and put them on. "This looks like the ruins of the morados in Piper's meadow."

"Morados?" Dean's brows drew down. "We thought it was a monastery or chapel, something like that."

"A morados is much the same thing. This is where you believe the coven is planning to hold the ritual?" She got nods from Dean and Abby.

Dr. Q leaned into her high-backed leather chair and laced her fingers across her waist. Her voice took on a professorial tone. "Three centuries ago…" Dean let out the tiniest of impatient sighs. Dr. Q paused and raised one brow in his direction. "I'll be as succinct as possible, Dean."

He felt color rise in his cheeks. "I'm listening," he muttered.

"Thank you. Three centuries ago when the Spanish invasion of Central America had a firm hold all the way into what would become Texas, the rule of law stated that when a Spanish landowner died, his native slaves, known as genizaros, would be freed. This highly stratified society _did_ considered the genizaros free, but also _dead_ along with their masters."

"Most of these walking dead joined an unorthodox arm of the holy Catholic Church called Los Hermanos Penitente Brotherhood. As is not uncommon for oppressed peoples, their religious canon centered around the physical suffering of Christ as the path to salvation. Flagellation and other forms of self inflicted punishments, even crucifixion were regularly practiced."

"But surely by the turn of the century when the morados in Piper's Meadow was built the west wasn't so wild anymore," Abby said. "There must have been laws against ritual torture even if the victims volunteered."

"Oh yes, the Brotherhood was thrust into the public spotlight. Priests were sent to intervene; to reassert the church's authority over the sect and most importantly to put an end to their violent if pious rituals. They succeeded to a large extent. The rituals gradually took on a more symbolic and less literal nature. However, there were still those fanatically dedicated to torture as a path to salvation. They simply went into hiding and continued their rites in secret more remote locations."

"Like Piper's Meadow," Dean said grimly.

"Yes. I'm disappointed to admit that until now, the correlation between the morados and our demon never occurred to me. Silver and copper mines in the mountains would have sustained him with victims through the mid 20th century. Then he moved into town, changed with the times and established the cult. That was thirty years ago. It was also the last time the demon acquired a new body. He took a great risk performing such a rite within the city. It attracted your grandfather's attention all those years ago."

"Thirty years, I had no idea Poppa'd been tracking it for that long," Abby mused.

"Thirty years and nobody's been able to kill it?" Dean asked.

"He seems to be a creature of few ambitions. He delights in ruining the lives of the members of his cult, but rarely kills them. He performs the rite to force himself on a new body only every few decades. That's not enough to attract the attention of the conventional authorities. The real mystery is why he stays in this realm at all. It's very unusual for a demon to remain on the earthly plane for so long."

Abby judged it was time to drop their last little bombshell and let Dr. Q run with it. Realizing that Sam hadn't taken credit for dreaming the drawing, Abby hated to go anywhere near telling her that he'd been visited by his dead girlfriend today.

Sam's eyes were locked on the window, but Dean gave her a nod. She took a breath and said, "We got a piece of information today that could be very helpful." Dr. Q turned to her. Abby pulled her little notebook out of the pocket of her purse, opened it and laid it on the desk.

As she read, the older woman's dark brown eyes widened. For the first time since they'd entered her office, she looked shaken. "Where did you get this?"

"Sam?" Abby prompted.

Sam heard her. He felt a sharp bite of pain in his palm as the pointed end of one of the crystals bit into the hand that clutched it. He looked up to find Dr. Quartermaine studying him; waiting for him to speak. He broke eye contact with that intent gaze then gritted his teeth and tried, "I knew a girl…" He faltered, finding it impossible to pull his thoughts into even one coherent sentence. How to start; where to start; college, meeting Jess, her murder? "Today she…"

Dr. Q interrupted him. "I misspoke, Sam. Forgive me. My question should have been do you trust the source of this name?"

Sam looked up bristling, expecting to see pity in her eyes. He found none. She was simply waiting for his reply. "Yes, absolutely."

She studied him a few more moments, then stood quickly and headed for the door. "All of you follow me. This is a very useful piece of our demon's puzzle and we have the means to complete the picture."

**AN: For you action junkies, hang on, its coming! Once it starts, it keeps on rolling right to the end. For those of you who prefer the character driven story, hold on to your hats.**


	13. Chapter 13, Best Laid Plans

**Chapter 13**

They followed her, Dean thought, like a line of goslings behind a mother goose, an attractive, wise mother goose that his father had…_Later, much later._ He cut off that train of thought with a grimace and a jerk of his chin.

They descended a flight of stairs in the sound deadened stairwell. When they reached the main floor landing Dr. Q, Abby, and Dean started on down the next flight. Sam hesitated, put his hand on the door to the main floor.

"Hey, bro, the witches are headed to the basement."

"The basement?" Sam shuddered.

"Yeah, come on." Dean grabbed Sam's elbow and tugged him around. "Whatever they've got down there better be good."

Sam frown at the door that would have gotten him outside. "Better be _damned_ good."

They walked briskly through the stacks till they approached a formidable metal door marked, "Rare Books, Enter by appointment only." Dr. Q drew a key card from her pocket and slid it through the slot. She also pressed her thumb into a lighted pad just beneath it. The glowing pad switched from red to green and Sam heard the door buzz open. He and Dean exchanged looks. This was the kind of security reserved for banks and high level research labs, not college libraries.

Sam shivered as they passed though a twilight-dim room filled with more shelves. The next brightly lit room, barely accommodated a large, wooden library table. One chair at the table was occupied. Facing away from them, someone sat hunched in front of a computer. Books lay open on the table on either side of him. His head swiveled back and forth between the two as his fingers clacked away at the keyboard.

Dr. Q hailed the figure just as they reached the doorway. "Carl, Abby and I've brought guests."

The young man sprang from the chair as if it'd been electrified. Standing bolt upright, he was as tall as Sam, Dean noted. If you added the height of his alarming carrot-orange hair, he was a good three inches taller. His pale startled face glowed in the little room's bright light along with his hair.

"I'm sorry we startled you, Carl," Abby said with an affectionate smile as she set the chair he'd toppled over back on its legs. She clasped the still dazed boy in an awkward hug.

The clouds cleared from Carl's face as suddenly as they'd appeared. He was obviously thrilled to see Abby; maybe thrilled to see any fellow human beings, Dean thought. He wondered how often they let the poor kid out of this hole.

"Oh, that's alright, Abby. You know how I get down here. I didn't hear you all come in." He straightened up from the hug and turned to the others. "Welcome to the pit. To what do I owe the pleasure, Dr. Q?"

"Carl, this is Dean. And Sam."

Carl thrust his hand out enthusiastically, grabbing Dean's before he had a chance to raise it from his side. He smiled and offered the hand to Sam next. "Pleased to meet you both."

"Likewise," Sam managed.

"Carl, we're in need of your expertise to pull together some information rather quickly." Dr. Q's tone wiped the smile from Carl's face, but not the sparkle of interest from his eyes.

"Of course, ma'am. How can I help?"

She nodded to Abby, who pulled her notebook out of her back pocket and handed it over to Carl.

Dean watched Carl's boyish pleasure drain completely away as he found the page where the demon names were written.

"The source was good?" Carl asked tightly.

Dr. Q nodded.

When Carl turned to Sam and Dean, speculation and suspicion weighted his eyes. Not entirely conscious of the movement, Dean took a step putting himself between Carl and his brother.

Abby jumped in, "They're alright Carl. This involves them directly and they're in the business."

Without turning away from them Carl asked her, "How long?"

"They've been hunting practically their whole lives."

"No, how long have you known them?"

At this Abby shifted uncomfortably. "Well, only a couple of days, officially, but…"

Carl's eyes still locked on Sam and Dean, widened and his hand dropped to a small bulge at his waist.

Everyone in the room went still. Dean sucked in a breath and kicked himself for not noticing the little dagger Carl carried in a sheath clipped to his belt. He was losing his edge in this damned town.

With a small impatient tick of her tongue, Dr. Q laid a hand on Carl's shoulder. "Carl, I trust them implicitly." She caught and held Carl's eyes.

"Fine, ma'am," he said tersely.

Dean stood his ground watching the boy closely.

Carl's gaze drifted down to the names in the notebook and the anxiety left his face. As he turned back to his chair he glanced over his shoulder with a distracted smile. "Sorry guys. If Dr. Q says you're ok then that's…." His muttered apology petered out as he sat down at his computer, or almost sat. In mid-decent he rose again. "Vetis… I've seen that name in the book of St. Agnes." Abby stepped up beside him and gently pushed him down again.

"I'll get it for you. Which aisle is it in?"

Carl's hands floated to the keyboard and almost before they touched it, began to type a rapid flow of commands. "Aisle six, section 3, second shelf." Abby smiled at Sam and Dean's bemused looks and slipped out to the dim outer room to retrieve the book.

Dr. Q ushered the Winchesters away from Carl's table and said in a hushed voice. "You're in good hands now. Carl will find all there is to know about this demon."

"You're leaving?" Dean asked. "Carl's not going to go for our throats or anything?"

"You'll have to forgive him, Dean. Carl has just put his life into your hands."

"How's that?" Sam asked.

"He's compiling a database of demon names, a modern grimoire, you might say."

"I thought a grimoire was a book of spells," Sam said.

"Yes, but a rare few also contain lists of names for demons…and angels. As you can imagine gathering data on such creatures is difficult." She looked at the boy with the halo of red curls fondly. "It's quite exciting for him to be handed a demon's full name out of the blue. I'm sure you've made his week." She grew serious. "He's a very brave soul. If any in the demonic realm or those who consort with them discovered Carl's project…"

"He'd have a target painted on his chest," Sam said.

"On his soul, yes, Sam."

"Why are the names so important?" Dean asked, watching Carl's hunched shoulders with new appreciation.

"True names have great power even on our own plane. That power is magnified a thousand times in the supernatural realm."

Dean had a sudden insight from one of his earliest memories. When he was in trouble, serious trouble for a four year old, like the time he'd decided to play quicksand and his mom had caught him carrying buckets of sand into the house and pouring it over Sam in his play seat, his mother called him by his full name, _Dean Jacob Winchester!_ He could still feel that panicky feeling that only his full name on his mother's angry lips could produce. Magnify that feeling a thousand times…_yeah, that'd be potent_.

"So that's what we're doing here," Sam said. "Carl's gonna put the name in his database, see what comes up?" He hoped that the information that surfaced would be riveting. He needed something to focus on, something to clear the green grass and sunshine out of his head. He could feel the floors above them closing in on him.

"Exactly." Dr. Q laid a hand on each of their shoulders and smiled. "Now, I have a class to teach. I'll leave you to your research." She hesitated then looked at the older Winchester for a moment. "Perhaps when this job is finished, we'll make some time to get better acquainted."

Twin sparks of curiosity burned in the boys' eyes. Sam replied, "We'd like that."

The Winchesters joined Carl and Abby at the long wooden table. Carl immediately handed them each latex gloves to protect the delicate pages of the old manuscripts from the oils and sweat of their hands.

The first book Carl had asked for led them to another and that one to several others. They used magnifying glasses to skim the volumes for the names. The nearly indecipherable words curved up and through the lenses faster and faster as they got the hang of it. When they found a name, they passed the document over to Carl to translate. Tedious work, but eventually a picture of Vetis emerged.

"Anything here about the ritual itself?" Dean asked eying the carefully stacked pile of books they'd gone through.

"I'm pretty sure Sam passed me a first hand account a little while ago." Carl carefully shifted the pile, chose a small hide bound volume.

"I read Latin, but I couldn't make that out," Sam said. "I just caught the name." Sam's hands fidgeted constantly; with the magnifying glass, the pencil, his crystals.

"It's in old Spanish, not Latin," Carl said. He leafed carefully through the pages till he came to the passage he was looking for.

"Read it out loud, Carl." Abby told him.

Carl nodded, eyes fixed on the page. After a moment he read haltingly. _Two days and two nights the chosen one was… softened for the master's purpose_."

"Cult tactics," Dean remarked. "We know this part, skip ahead some."

"You know this part?" Carl asked

"Just keep readin'"

He shot Dean a narrow-eye'd glance. "So…, _After two days, feeling no earthly comfort, the chosen one offered himself up freely_."

"There's that free will thing again," Abby said. "I think my hunch about that being essential was right."

Carl went on, "_The priests caught the crimson flow of first blood and mingled it with the ichor__ of the master. Upon the chosen one's beating heart they drew the symbols, in his own tainted blood_, _to guide the master to his new vessel._"

Carl paused rubbing the side of his nose. "That wasn't a very elegant translation."

"Good enough," Dean said. "_On his beating heart_; so they cut the guy open?"

Sam sat with his head in his hands. He didn't look up, just spoke into the table. "On his bare chest probably. They wouldn't want to damage the new body. Carl, keep going."

"Ok, so…_Lo the master's mighty, voice blended with the brethren and fortified them. The portal to Hell opened. A great heat, as of one thousand forges, burned from the portal and two fingers of lightening, from the hand of Satan himself, struck the master and the chosen one_…_exploding…_no_, ejecting their very souls…The master's soul, blacker than night, flew to the vessel and… ravaged it. The blood anointed jewel lured the chosen one, entombing him_."

Sam's hand squeezed convulsively on the crystals around his neck. He fought the urge to pull them off and fling them away. 'The pit' grew smaller and colder by the second. God, he needed a breath of fresh air.

His sudden visceral need to get out of this room brought him to his feet. "Carl, where's the bathroom?"

Surprised to have his mind suddenly jerked back from its dark translations, Carl had to give his head a shake before answering. "Oh, just outside the security door, take a right. They're down at the north end of the room. I think they put them a little distance from the pit to force whoever's in here to get up and get out once in a while." He smiled sheepishly. "Just ring the buzzer when you're ready to come back in."

"I could use a pit stop too." Dean smiled a little. "No pun intended. I'll go with you." He pushed back his chair and rose.

"Dean, I think I can handle this on my own."

"Hey, Sam, nature calls for everybody…"

Sam's voice grew impatient. "Dean, I think I'll be alright between here and the john, ok?"

Dean studied his brother for a long moment. A dewy film of sweat shone on Sam's forehead as he raked his fingers through his hair. Dean sighed. From the look on Sam's face, it might come to blows if he tried to insist on following him to take a leak. Dean sat back down, but locked eyes with his brother, "Straight there and straight back."

Sam returned a stubborn glare and walked out without a reply.

"Is he alright?" Carl asked.

Dean kept his eyes on Sam till the door closed behind him. "Yeah, he just needs a little time out." He turned back to the book.

"So what's this tell us? Have we found any weak points?" Dean asked.

"What about a straight forward exorcism?" Abby ventured.

"That could work." Dean sat back barely tipping the hard plastic chair onto two legs. "Lure the demon somewhere warded, trap him, then exorcise his butt. We've done it before." Dean liked the simplicity of the idea.

Carl scribbled on a yellow legal pad as they talked. "With Sam as bait you could lure the demon to…"

"NO!" Dean and Abby both pounced on that one.

They startled Carl so badly he nearly tipped over his chair again. Once he'd righted himself he gave them a hurt look. "Hey, we were just brainstorming ideas here. Jeez."

Dean shook his head. "We don't need to lure him anywhere. We're taking the hurt to his home turf."

"My shield charm should work," Abby said. "Beefed up with the demon's full name it I might contain him."

"Might?" Dean arched a brow.

"Definitely will contain him," She amended with a firm nod.

"Does he have the two priests with him that they mention here, and all the brethren?" Carl asked, still skimming the passage in the book.

Dean and Abby shared a look; he let Abby answer. "Based on my experience, definitely."

Carl looked from one of them to the other with a frown. Finally, he sighed. "Abby after this is all over, I hope you'll write your account of what happens for the archives. It could be important for somebody down the line."

"I will, Carl. I promise."

"Ok." Carl's eyes scanned the pages again. "You'll need to disrupt the brethren vomiting their souls out...probably some kind of chant; cut off the stream of power the demon's getting from those poor saps."

"We have supplies for that." Abby's hand dropped to her purse on the floor and fingered the pocket where she'd stashed the three perfume bottles full of sleeping potion.

"Good, then you'll need to do something about the priests."

"Abby, you said they're super strong, fast, but not immortal, right? I mean bullets wouldn't bounce off them as far as you know?"

She could see Carl practically biting his tongue trying to keep from asking how she could know any of this. She again mentally promised him her written account. "Mortal? Sort of. The demon sustains a little spark of life in them. We need to find a way to cut them off. I'm not sure bullets would do it."

A malicious glint sparkled in Dean's eyes. "The water guns. A face full of holy water would break the connection to the demon."

Abby grinned at him.

Carl counted up their stack of books. "We've got about sixteen references to Vetis over two hundred years." He looked up at them. "Long time."

"Yeah. Why is he working so hard to stay here?" Abby asked, not really expecting an answer.

"In trouble at home maybe?" Dean speculated.

"Maybe," Carl said. "There's no way to know for sure, unless you ask him." There was a hopeful note in the boy's voice.

"When we get that close to him it won't be to chat," Dean said grimly.

Carl sighed. "Yeah, I guess not."

"All I know is it's about time somebody finally sent him back to hell." Dean straightened and stripped off his latex gloves. They'd answered as many questions as they were going to. They needed to get moving.

"And speaking of time, it's…" He glanced at his watch and his gut gave a little lurch. "Where's Sam?"

Sam didn't turn right when he left the pit, he walked quickly straight back the way they'd come. His vision tunneled down until only the door at the far end of the narrow aisle of books filled it. A desperate need to breathe fresh air and feel the sun on his face had his heart pounding in his ears.

He clutched the pendants as he walked. Distractedly, he noticed that he still had on the latex gloves. He stripped them off and dropped them.

_The crystals work better in sunlight. I just need a recharge. A minute or two then I'm back._

Thoughts of Jessica churned in his mind, abrading tender scars on his heart. His longing for her tangled disturbingly with images of frost blackened faces and crimson, blood tipped crystals. He hit the door with a bang.

_I just need to get outside for a minute. Gotta clear my head._

The anticipation of fresh air lightened his step but as he started up the stairs, a face from his nightmare stopped him cold.

For a split second his mind registered what he was seeing as a damned scary costume. This was Halloween after all. Then the tingle on the back his neck snapped another interpretation into place.

A demon priest stood deathly still; its face like a dried apple doll from some darkside county fair. Sunken eyes gave off a dull jaundiced glow. Jowls hanging off the puckered, lipless mouth flowed into the neck like layers of puddled wax. A heavy, black robe and cowl covered it from head to foot. Sam might have worked up some pity if the thing hadn't been radiating malice.

His first adrenalin induced thought was, _Dean's gonna kill me! _Then he cursed and spun back around.

Sam intended to jump down the stairs and sprint back through the basement door, but he grabbed the railing hard and jerked himself to a stop instead. As the door swung closed below him, the second priest emerged from behind it.

They'd been waiting.

"Dean!" His brother's name erupted from his throat. Before he could take another breath, a hand clamped over his mouth and a forearm like a steel bar pulled him back against what felt like a knobby tree trunk.

The priest at the bottom of the stairs started toward him. Ignoring his inability to breathe for the moment, he grabbed the arm at his throat with one hand and reached around the back of the priest's neck with the other. He hung on, lifted both feet off the ground and just as the other priest reached him, kicked out knocking it to the bottom of the stairs with a muffled thud. As Sam's feet touched the ground again he bent double and pulled hard. The first priest flew over his head, crashed into its partner.

_Too strong and too damned fast! _They were both up, crouched low, snarling before Sam could get his second gulp of air. He had no weapons, only his bare hands, a cell phone and a pen. _Not good_.

He drove an elbow into one puckered face when they rushed him. They half carried him back up to the landing, drove him into the concrete block wall. He saw stars, felt the sharp pain of a rib cracking as one of them hammered a fist into his side. There was a hard tug at his neck. Past the sudden roar in his ears, he heard a high-pitched wail. One priest dropped his crystal pendants as if they'd burned it.

The pain of the beating faded under another onslaught.

Without the pendants, the daymare smothered him like a thick coat of tar. Sam couldn't breath, couldn't fight, couldn't hope. Blackness closed in.


	14. Chapter 14, Lone Ranger

Chapter 14

Dean pounded down to the end of the long room. He slid to a stop at the men's room and shoved the door open hard enough to slam it against the wall despite its pneumatic hinge.

"Sam? Sam, you in here?" His stomach dropped. "Damn it."

Abby met him when he stormed out. The stony look on his face told her Sam wasn't there; she forced down a little hiccup of panic.

"Maybe he's stretching his legs," she attempted.

"Yeah, maybe."

"There're plenty of aisles to walk up and down on this floor. I'll check…" She didn't have time to finish the sentence. Dean was off at a brisk walk, back toward the rare books room. She cursed under her breath and started searching in the opposite direction.

Dean took the trip more slowly the second time making sure to check down each narrow book canyon as he went. The only person he saw was a girl with a curtain of blond hair hunched over scattered books. When Dean reached the rare books room again he turned to look down the aisle opposite the door. Something on the floor caught his eye.

_Tell me you didn't do what I think you did, little brother_. A small, colorless lump lay on the floor about twenty feet away. Dean consciously reined in his imagination as he walked toward it. He squatted down, reached for Sam's latex gloves and squeezed them into his fist. "Ah Sammy, what were you thinking?"

Dean started toward the door to the stairwell; again reining in his stampeding thoughts.

"He just needed a breath of fresh air," he muttered to himself. "He's standing in front of the library catching some rays," he insisted as his feet and his heart rate sped up. He hit the door with a bang and a yell. "Sam!" Taking the stairs two at a time he nearly fell as he grabbed the railing hard and shifted his weight in mid-stride to avoid crushing what he saw lying on a step.

Time slowed. His senses sharpened like a camera lens tweaked into proper focus. He reached down and gripped Sam's crystals in his fist. Dean let his eyes roam over the space. About six feet up, marring the sound deadening fabric on the wall, a red smear stood out like lipstick on a white collar. He moved closer, dread tightening his belly and reached out to touch it. Blood, fresh blood. He saw spatter on the floor too. He cursed.

It had happened. They'd been too slow! _Too damned slow!_ Images swirled through his mind; chains, blood, Sam in the snow, helpless on the altar. He barely heard Abby run up behind him. She put her hand on his shoulder and brought him abruptly out of that sucking whirlpool of his imagination.

Abby starred bleakly at the crystals in his hand. "Oh, Dean. What was he thinking?"

"It's been no more than fifteen minutes. They could still be here." He said through clenched teeth.

He vaulted up the stairs ignoring Abby's call. Out the door, on the main floor of the library he stopped and scanned the huge open room, and cursed again. Everywhere he turned he saw demons, and werewolves, clowns, presidents and vampires. "I hate Halloween!" he spat. _They could have carried Sam's bleeding body straight through this room and nobody would've noticed. _Fuming, he started across the wide expanse, half hoping to bump into someone so he'd have an excuse to create a little mayhem. Abby caught up with him and grabbed his elbow. He jerked away from her and kept walking, anger bubbling. She grabbed it again and pulled him around.

"There's a back door." He wasn't hearing her. "Dean!" She cringed and looked around. Several students frowned at her. "They'd use the back door," Abby hissed into his face. Once sure she'd gotten his attention, she turned and led the way.

They both burst out of the double doors onto a wide cement patio with a zigzagged wheel chair ramp leading down to a small parking lot. The ramp's yellow railing looked garishly bright, like a children's crayon drawing. The rest of the world had gone grey. An avalanche of chalky clouds, heavy with unshed snow had rolled down the mountains in the two hours they'd worked inside. The sunny autumn day they'd left was pushed far to the east. The mountains had completely disappeared beneath the cloud-bank, robbing the campus of its spectacular view.

A hard gust of wind with a nasty bite blew open Dean's unbuttoned coat. He didn't feel the sting even as his cheeks flushed red. Abby shivered, drew the bottom of her down vest together and quickly zipped it up to her neck.

Both in full hunter mode now, their gazes swept the parking lot and the backs of the buildings that surrounded it straining to penetrate the gauzy distance. Nothing moved except a couple hurriedly locking their car doors. They scurried up the side walk hunched down in their coats, eager to get inside.

Dean vaulted the railing and headed off around the side of the building before Abby could…. _What?_ She thought. _Hold his hand? Tell him everything was gonna be alright?_ She gritted her teeth. "I'll look around the other side," she grumbled to empty air.

Before leaving the patio Abby took a second to get centered. One slow, deep breath was all it took. Open Sighted hunts were never easy; on Halloween it could be downright unpleasant, but right now she had to be sure she didn't miss anything. With eyes Open, Abby started off.

Dean moved quickly but deliberately; struggling to let his training take over, to slip into the zone like he always did in tight spots. Dad had taught them that harnessed panic was the only difference between victims and heroes. Everybody panics; fear can save your life if you use it and keep thinking. But right now with Sam's life at stake maintaining focus was slippery business.

He doubted Sam would be upright, at least not unassisted so he didn't bother looking for his brother's tousled brown hair a head above the crowd. He looked for clumps of people moving quickly, but awkwardly. He remembered Sam's description of the long black robes on the figures in the trees and hunted for those too.

About half way around the building, a hundred yards away, he spotted a small group of people, at least three heads above thick folds of grey and brown fabric that the wind tugged and twisted around them. His heart leapt. He angled toward them at a run. The three figures broke apart. The one in the center swung a child up onto his shoulders. Her laughter rode a gust of wind to his ears then quickly skirted away. _Trick or treaters_. He let out a breath that ended in a frustrated moan and resumed his circuit around the building.

Abby rounded the opposite corner as Dean reached the front doors of the library. She moved smoothly past groups of scurrying students, eyes Searching, sliding briefly over every living thing in view.

Nothing in her circuit of the building had startled her till she came around the last corner and Saw Dean.

His aura pulsed green and gold like a neon sign whose circle of light seemed to be in perpetual motion outward. The rest of the world saw a slightly irritated young man and instinctively left a wide space around him. She Saw his aura expand till its edges thinned, stretching out hunting for his connection to Sam. The occasional glaring wave of red buzzing through the green and gold revealed his terror, to her at least. She frowned, took a firm hold of her own growing panic and approached him.

"He's gone." The flat, even tone of Dean's voice was completely at odds with what she Saw. She closed her Sight and braced herself.

"Abby, take me back to my car."

"Dean…"

"Abby, I know where they're taking him. Take me back to my car," he said again; his voice barely controlled.

She answered him quietly. "You gonna drive the Impala up the mountain into the back country? Does it do pretty well in three feet of snow, Dean? Do you even know how to get there?"

She flinched. He was right on the edge. Abby could feel him pulling away from her, girding himself to hunt alone. She had to pull him back. Gently, half afraid he'd bolt, she put her hand on his shoulder. "Dean, you're not alone."

Her words taunted him. His urge to call their dad had his palm itching on the cell phone in his pocket, but he knew that even if by some miracle he could reach him, there was no time. Dad couldn't sweep in and save the day like he had all those years ago for Abby. His brother's life was in his hands alone.

"You can't do this by yourself." Abby enunciated each word. Dean's brow furrowed stubbornly. "You don't have to." Abby gritted her teeth and let her eyes do the arguing. _Ignore your father's voice inside your thick skull this one time. Take this little leap of faith._ Her heart thumped up into her throat when she saw his eyes swimming. _Damn it!_ She wanted to hit him!

_Dad's wrong about hunting alone, Abby's right, simple as that?_ Dean thought. Just trust her and every Tom, Dick and Lizzy she told him was okay? Could he switch from Lone Ranger to Justice League just like that?

Suddenly an image vivid and clear sprang to life in his mind. He saw himself speeding along in the Impala, a black Lone Ranger mask tied across his eyes. At the push of a big red button the car's wheels clanked and shifted turning into four wide skis. He leaned out the window and shouted "I'm comin' Sammy! I'll save you!"

_Ah-ha. _

Sometimes, Dean had to admit he was too pig-headed for his own good.

He pulled in a deep breath... and took the leap.

His chin dropped to his chest. A flood of tension left his body. He opened his eyes, really focusing for the first time in a long time on the witch standing in front of him...The furious witch...The one up in his face.

Dean took a half step back. She grabbed him by the collar and pulled him closer.

"You're as stubborn and arrogant as your father!" Abby hissed. "You can't ride in on a white horse and save the damned day every time, Dean! Your macho _I can do it all_ act is totally bogus. I'm not gonna to let…"

"Shut up," he said quietly.

"What? Why you …"

Dean kissed her, hard and fast crushing their bodies together firmly enough to leave an impression. She stumbled a bit when he released her. He jumped quickly into the stunned silence.

"You're right. I'm wrong." He paused and frowned considering his next words. "I think I'm falling in love with you, by the way. What's our next move?"

She stared at him. He reached over and pushed her chin up with his finger till her teeth lightly clicked together.

"I'm right?" She managed.

"Yeah."

"And you think you're…"

"Yeah."

"And you're asking me what our next move…"

"Abby, we don't have a lot of time here. Who should we call?"

She shook her head trying to process this abrupt about face then frowned at him. "Bastard." He smiled grimly. Abby reached into her purse for her cell phone still grumbling under her breath. "Button your coat. We call Liz. We need her truck and her sleds."

Dean did as he was told. "We still need to stop back at your place. There are a few things I have to pick up," he said.

"That's fine." They were running back toward her car now. "We need snow gear for one thing and maps." She pulled her cell out, making a mental list in her head and speed-dialed Liz.

Dean grabbed his cell too, kicking himself. He should have thought of this ten minutes ago. He speed-dialed Sam.

#####

Vetis Izar Garanth

Unholy Father, I have it! Finally, after six years, you _will _accept me back; not as a supplicant, but in triumph! I'll return with your enemy on his knees, his soul and that of his ghet in my pocket.

Three centuries past, you vomited me onto this plane. Bereft of even the smallest glimmer of power, I cast myself into one human after another till by sheer chance I took possession of a human of stature; a leader among the chattel. Father, what exquisite power he had at his command!

It flowed from his followers like manna only needing my taint to turn it to brine. I suckled from the human breast of loyalty, and devotion and returned the putrefying seeds of greed, desperation and hopelessness. I discovered the purity of power freely given. I found, Father that I have a talent for corruption.

Six years ago, fate sent your enemy to me. John Winchester, the human thorn in your side these many years, set himself an obstacle in my path. But Father, I have turned defeat into the opportunity. I have contrived to lure this irritant's offspring within my grasp. I intend to possess the son and to wreak such havoc on and with him that John Winchester will remember his wife's burning at your hand as if it were a sliver in his thumb. I will take this vessel to the edge of its endurance and beyond and our enemy will watch as his precious son rapes and murders, steals and plunders souls!

Finally and most sublimely, the knife I'll twist into his chest will be hope. Hope that his son can be saved, returned to his body, redeemed. Humans can endure the most exquisite pain when they indulge in the tiniest sliver of hope. But in the end he will beg me to kill his son; beg me to end them both.

In this state will I present your old enemy to you. And the beauty Father, is that the angel-touched will still be yours, unfouled, but alone and more vulnerable than ever.

This will be my homecoming gift to you, Father. The angel-touched weakened, but unmolested, his brother utterly corrupted, and John Winchester on his knees.


	15. Chapter 15, Gearing Up

AN: I just revised this one, late at night, over a nice Sauvignon Blanc, 4/30/11.

Chapter 15

He was dreaming. Sam knew that in a semi-conscious kind of way. The alarm clock by his and Jessica's bed went off way too early. It was still pitch dark. He reached across her sleeping body to hit the snooze button, but his hand got tangled in the sheets. He started tugging to get his hand free and Jess elbowed him in the ribs. It hurt! Sam's eyes snapped open.

The dream faded.

Several stunned heartbeats later a giddy euphoria swept through him.

The daymare was gone; the smothering weight of it, the slimy touch on his mind, finally and completely gone. _I'm clean! Oh God, for the first time in three friggin' weeks!_

Laughter burbled up from his belly. The first physical sensation to edge out the bliss was the feel of the gag between his teeth. It made laughing out loud just a little awkward. Sobering, Sam took stock of his predicament and came to the reluctant conclusion that he was in a hell of a lot of trouble. He couldn't shake the grin.

Sam remembered the tug at the back of his neck and the collapse that followed the devastating loss of his crystals. He smiled around the gag again. _No wards, no pendants and no daymare! Man, that's so great!_ _Ok, I get five more seconds to revel in this then it's back to pain and terror._

Five seconds passed.

He hurt all over. It occurred to him that it was pretty damned unfair to feel numb with cold and hurt all over at the same time. The cold was manageable in the narrow confines of wherever he was, but annoying shivers sent continuous little stabs of pain through the cracked rib in his chest.

He was either in a very small trunk or a very big box and he'd either gone blind or it was pitch black and noisy as hell. They'd tied his hands behind his back, quite well. One of the priests must have started life as a sailor. After several minutes of struggling, all he'd gained were rope-burns. No chance of getting to the cell phone that he hoped was still in his pocket.

The rattling roar he'd woken to led him to guess he must be trapped in a tank or a tractor. Neither made any sense. He didn't have a sense of high speed. The vehicle bumped laboriously along. He pressed lightly against the downward side of the compartment so they were heading up; probably into the mountains. That thought wet-blanketed his last spark of giddiness. Sam knew where they were headed.

He struggled onto his back and made use of some the adrenalin pumping into his system, kicked the roof of his cramped prison, screamed garbled curses through the gag. The effort warmed him up some, but didn't get him out. He lay back panting, his side throbbing in time with his pulse.

Sam concentrated on not letting his ribs expand quite so far with every breath. An unsavory possibility occurred to him; just how well sealed was this coffin? Should he be conserving oxygen? _Crap!_ He had no idea how long he'd been crammed in here. He squirmed back onto his side and lay there trying to decide if the black box was really getting smaller.

Sam's one consoling thought even as it squeezed a knot of panic in his belly was… Yes, he knew where they were headed, but then so did Dean.

#####

Darkness fell early. The sky had dropped so low that as Abby pulled up behind the Impala at the curb in front of her house, she felt like she could reach up and grab a handful of the snow that weighed the clouds down. She leapt out of the car.

Dean slapped his phone shut with a frustrated snap. He'd tried Sam three time, gotten nothing. He stepped out, dropped the damned phone into his pocket and swore he wouldn't touch it again. Either Sam was out of range, or couldn't get to the phone. Dean wouldn't consider any other possibility.

He dove into the trunk of the Impala and hiked up his shirt to clip an eight inch hunting knife and sheath to the waist of his jeans. He slipped his 9mm Beretta into his right pocket, just didn't feel right hunting without it, even if bullets would stop the priests. He rummaged for a moment more till he came up with the small, well worn book that contained the exorcism.

As Dean slammed the trunk, Abby came out her front door at a trot. She wore a white parka; its fur trimmed hood lay across her shoulders. She'd changed her hiking shoes for knee-high snow boots and had a large, red ski patrol duffel hung over one shoulder. When she got close enough, she shoved a forest-green parka and a pair of boots at him.

"What size shoe do you wear?" she asked as she opened the Impala's back door and threw the duffel inside.

"Ten, ten and half. Abby, I have a coat."

"Perfect, put the boots on. There are wool socks inside them." Her motions like her words were clipped and efficient. "Your coat's not near warm enough for where we're going, Dean." She walked around to the passenger side door and waited.

He hesitated only a moment, then tossed the book onto the front seat and took off his leather coat. "Whose stuff is this anyway?" He took the Beretta and the cell out of his coat pocket and laid them on the driver's seat.

"Poppa's," she answered from inside the car. "He'd be happy you're hunting with it."

The parka was still warm from the house. It felt like armor when he zipped himself into it. As Dean reached into the car and picked up the Beretta with his right hand, Abby grabbed his other wrist and slapped a perfume bottle into his palm.

"Be careful where you point that thing," she said.

He knew she wasn't just talking about the sleeping potion. Dean nodded. "No worries."

As he dropped on to the edge of the seat Abby whisked the old book out from under him just in time. She leafed through it while he kicked off his shoes and dug the thick wool socks out of the boots. He slid his foot into the first one and began to lace it up. "Boots are a little loose."

"That's good." She didn't lift her eyes from the book. "It's better too loose than too tight. You gotta have good circulation."

He finished the last knot and wiggled his toes. Dean grimaced. Sam hadn't been wearing boots or wool socks. _Stop!_

Dean put the key in the ignition. It felt good to be back in his car. Part of him wanted to give his baby a chance to prove herself on the high mountain roads. But not tonight, he wouldn't take even the slightest risk. He turned the key. The car roared to life, unoffended by his prudence.

Liz met them at the front entrance to her building on the run. "Come on. We've got the Explorer all hitched up. A giant stepped out of the doorway behind her.

The man was about Dean's age, as tall as Sam, but at least 40 pounds of solid muscle heavier. He looked carved from marble with ebony skin and a still, focused demeanor that made him seem both formidable and gentle at the same time. He caught up to Liz in two giant steps and slowed her down with a hand laid gently on her shoulder.

"No need to run, girl." His voice rumbled out smooth and mellow as a drum roll.

"I wasn't runnin', I was just walkin' fast," Liz sniffed. She turned much like she had up in the apartment this morning and marched off expecting them to follow. Liz's husband, had to be Dean figured, gestured Dean to step ahead of him.

Dean felt his shoulders tighten. He'd gotten a good look at the lettering on the blue duffel the big man carried, "CSPD", _Colorado Springs Police Department?_ A cop. Married to a witch. Made about as much sense as everything else had in the past couple days. He tried to put a leash on his habitual hostility toward authority figures who carried guns. The bad mojo was inevitable. He was guilty of ten things in ten states for which Liz's husband could haul him in. Suddenly the weight of the Beretta dragged at his pocket.

Abby belatedly made introductions. "Dean, this is Liz's husband Daryl."

"Yeah, I figured that out." He looked back over his shoulder and the two men gave each other measuring looks. Both men kept their conclusions clamped behind their teeth.

At the back side of the building they stopped beside a huge black Ford Explorer. Muscle on wheels, V8 engine, all-wheel drive. Dean approved.

"This our ride?" he asked.

Daryl tossed him the keys. "It'll get you there."

The trailer on the back carried two snow mobiles. Dean stepped back to check out the rig.

"You ever driven a snow mobile?" Daryl rumbled.

"Nope. It anything like a jet ski?"

"Somethin' like. You've driven one of those?"

"Sure." He had, years ago. The memories were all wrapped up in a late night lake party, an eighteen year old blond, and losing his virginity, but he thought he could remember handling the jet ski too.

"That'll help." Daryl was a man of few words. A good thing; being married to Liz, he probably didn't need to talk much. She and Abby were loading up the back seat of the big SUV. Dean could hear Liz's voice with its soft Georgian twang giving a steady stream of reassurances and advice.

Abby and Liz had a map spread out on the hood. The two men moved up for a better look. "…this trail? Ten miles up Gold Camp Road?" Liz pointed to a barely visible dotted red line.

"Right. There aren't any signs, but if it's not snowing too bad up there, you'll be able to pick out the trail head."

"The Explorer will make it that far even if the snow is bad." Daryl rumbled over his wife's shoulder.

"We'll follow you with the cavalry as soon as we can get everybody together," Liz added.

"_I'll_ follow," Daryl corrected her firmly.

Liz spun on him, looking shocked as if this wasn't the second time today she'd been reminded that she couldn't come along. She turned back to Abby pouting and engulfed her in a hug, then stepped back and held her at arm's length.

"Abby, you're gonna be fine, girl."

"I know," Abby said.

Abby's face looked grim. In her first round with this demon, Vetis had dominated her like a pit bull on a baby rabbit. Dean knew that she had to be wondering if she had the stuff this time around to turn the tables. He planned to make sure she did.

Liz gave Dean a hard look. Her eyes narrowed, a momma bear glower fleeting across her face. "You two watch each other's backs. Just kick some butt and come home safe."

"We will," they chorused; obedient soldiers.

"And Sam's gonna be fine too. He has to be. He owes us a baby shower gift." With that parting shot and a nod from Daryl, Liz released them and stepped back to lean into her husband's solid frame.

"Do you know how to handle a car in the snow?" Abby asked leaning in the window after Dean climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

"Are you kidding? Kansas boy." He jabbed a thumb at his chest. Her scowl told him that she wasn't convinced. "Have you ever driven across Kansas at night in a blizzard?" he asked her.

"No," she admitted reluctantly.

"Well I have; more than once. In this monster a sixteen year old girl could do it. Now get in and navigate. Please."

They were on their way.


	16. Chapter 16, We're not in Kansas Anymore

Chapter 16

Sam opened his eyes hoping that the end of the noise signaled the end of their trip. The need for oxygen had trumped his fear of arriving at the ruins about twenty minutes ago. He desperately wanted out.

The lid opened. Sam had about two seconds to squint into a low, pewter gray sky, then the world tilted crazily. He fell, tumbling. With hands tied, he hit the ground hard. He shook his head to clear powdery snow from his eyes. Blackened fingers grabbed for his neck.

Sam rolled onto his back, kicked out, but sank into the snow drift. The glancing blow he managed didn't slow the priest at all. It grabbed him by his jacket, flipped him back onto his stomach and planted a boney knee firmly between his shoulders. Sam let out a grunt of pain. The unmistakable snick of an opened switchblade froze the blood in his veins.

Suddenly, it ended. The priest moved off him and his arms were free. He flailed onto his butt, backstroked away from the priests till he hit a nice solid tree and used it to leveraged himself to his feet. He swayed, trying to suck air past the gag still in his mouth. He tore it from his face, spat snow and a foul taste and took up a wobbly semblance of his fighting stance.

Sam's joints felt about as flexible as frozen taffy. His breath spewed out in plumes of fog. His fists tingled with pins and needles as circulation returned. If the priests decided to come at him now he wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell.

At the moment though, they just stood there, still as death, staring at him with their jaundiced yellow eyes. It occurred to him that maybe they were just going to keep standing there and watch him freeze to death. No need to put themselves out.

"W..well guys, who's up for a s..snowball fight?" Sam offered, teeth chattering. He got no takers; just silent menace. He was about to pick up handful of snow, he didn't have any other weapons on him, when one of them finally spoke.

It lifted one boney, blackened hand pointing past Sam and rasped, "Of your own free will. Meet the master, or choose death." It let the arm drift slowly back to its side.

A shiver totally unrelated to the cold racked his body. Sam turned and looked back. His heart rose into his throat.

They were standing at the edge of a clearing. As if on cue clouds parted and the full moon set a ghostly glow across the pristine snow. Moon shadows leapt at him from the winter bare trees.

Landscape/dreamscape, this was his nightmare. Atop a small rise stood the tree and next to it crouched deep in the shadowed hollow sat the morados like some black, lumpish toad waiting lazily for hapless prey to chance by and provide it a meal. Except for the figures missing from the branches, two of them were standing right in front of him, Sam stared open mouthed at his dream come true. His lips twitched into a grim smile.

He turned back to the priests. "B..been there; d..done that. I'm n..not walking up that..t damned hill. You c..can go to hell." The vehemence he hoped to convey was a little marred by his chattering teeth, but he thought they got the idea. They both growled deep in their scrawny chests. He tensed.

"Then die," the priests hissed together. One of them moved too quickly for Sam's half frozen reflexes to respond and backhanded him across the face. He fell, this time with hands outstretched and still barely managed to keep his head above the snow. He tasted blood and spat a crimson star-burst onto the snow then turned, dumbfounded as the priests climbed into their vehicle….

Sam stared. They'd brought him up here in an equipment bin on the back of a Pike Forest Service snowcat! He got to his knees. The half truck, half tank the park service used to groom roads and ski trails, plowed its way up the hill toward the ruins. _They stole the damn thing from Abby!_ He kept watching till it disappeared over the rise and into the waiting jaws of the black toad. Even then he waited, expecting the priests to come charging back at super human speed to drag him up the hill.

_What the hell's going on? _Did they actually think he'd walk up that hill of his own free will? He shook his head and pushed himself onto his feet, brushing snow off his jeans and jacket.

As his right hand brushed his pocket he felt the cell phone. His fingers were almost too numb to flip the damned thing open and he nearly dropped it twice in the attempt. After all that, the glowing green screen informed him that he had zero bars; no signal, _and _a low battery.

"Well, c..crap!" No taxi service tonight. Sam tossed the useless gadget into his pocket, turned his back on the dream-scape and shakily walked down the groomed trail the priests and their stolen snowcat had so kindly left him.

He kept looking back over his shoulder and only resisted the urge to run because his feet were so clumsy with cold he was afraid he'd slip and break an ankle. _For whatever reason, they're not following. So all I have to do is make it…who knows how many miles back to the city on foot, in the dark, with no gear. Cake. It could be worse, it could be snow…_. _Crap!_ A frigid gust of wind hit the back of his neck and slid in under his jacket. Tiny crystalline flakes of snow began falling across the trail.

A shudder that register on the Richter scale made him stumble and brought one knee to the frozen ground with a crack. "D..d…damn it! Dean you b..better meet me half way!"

Sam struggled back to his feet, wrapped his arms across aching ribs, tucked his hands into his armpits and trudged on. He pushed the cold to the back of his mind teasing out the riddle of why the priests had dragged him to within fifty yards of the coven then let him go. Three weeks of torture then… "…of your own f..frinkin'…free wwwill? Yeah, r…right," Sam stuttered. It didn't make any sense.

#####

By silent agreement, after Abby flipped the radio to the Rockies Weather Service station to hear what they'd be up against in the higher elevations, conversation ceased.

Gold Camp Road twisted up the mountain like a side-winder; far from anything like the straight, flat roads of Kansas. Dean's fingers whitened on the steering wheel as visibility diminished. Snow flakes thickening in the headlights forced him to cut their speed in half. He fumed, crawling along at the legal limit.

Abby fought her own demon, the self doubt she'd worked hard to overcome for the past six years. She felt ninety-nine percent ready to face Vetis. That last one percent, the difference between preparation and the real deal made her stomach burn with worry.

They reached a fork in the road and Abby called a halt. A wide two-armed metal gate blocked public access to the narrow road they needed to take. Or it should have; the heavy chain that joined the two arms of the gate together hung broken in their head lights. One side swung back and tracks of a large car cut ruts in the snow.

"This the only way up to the morados?" Dean asked nodding toward the fresh tracks.

"Yeah. That's gotta be them."

"Good."

Dean edged the big car and trailer forward, nudging the gates out of the way. Abby twisted in her seat and looked back down the dark road. The weather service forecast hadn't been encouraging. Heavy snow was expected in the higher elevations for the next few hours. When it cleared off around midnight the temperature would plunge into the teens. Daryl and the cavalry would be a while coming. She gritted her teeth and turned back to the map. She ran through their plan, letting its practical simplicity calm her active imagination and too vivid memories. With Sam as victim instead of ally they'd had to alter things a bit. She and Dean would each take out three of the coven with the sleeping potion first. If they were fast and lucky, they'd disrupt the chant before the hell-gate opened. Next they'd sever the priests' connections to Vetis with pistols full of holy water. She'd throw her binding spell on the demon. Dean would read the exorcism. They'd rescue Sam, who would be shaken, but fine, and they'd all live happily ever after.

She drew a slow breath. It was a good plan, even with only two of them, but she couldn't keep from glancing back over her shoulder again. If only back-up wasn't quite so out of reach.

Abby squinted out at the blowing snow in the headlights and struggled to spot the landmarks she knew so well. Her stomach roiled at the thought of missing the turn off or sliding off the road and stranding them in a ditch; stranding Sam.

She glanced over at Dean, glad she'd let him drive. His white knuckled concentration on the road was hopefully keeping _his_ imagination in check.

Dean had a much more facile mind than she'd given him credit for. The frosty grip he'd achieved on his nerves kept slipping on annoying pop-ups of hell gates, bloody priests and Sam on a slab.

"This is it. Look over there," Abby pointed out her window.

How she'd spotted anything Dean couldn't guess. The world ended in a swirling white wall about six inches from the side window as far as he could see. He heaved in a breath and peeled his fingers off the wheel one by one.

Abby grabbed a flashlight, pulled up the hood of her parka and stepped out of the car. Frigid wind took her breath away till she tucked her chin into the front of her parka. She swept her flashlight beam across the road. There, tipped nose first into the ditch was a boxy van quickly being blanketed into the landscape.

Dean stepped up beside her. He caught her eye and could see the same fantasy crossing her mind as had hold of his; the van had crashed, the priests had fled and they'd find Sam inside, cold, but unhurt. No matter how wildly unlikely, Dean couldn't control the surge of his pulse as he crossed the road and reached for the door handle. He jerked it open, shoved the flashlight in ahead of him and shone it around the interior.

Nothing.

"They've gone." Abby pointed the flashlight onto another set of tracks. "They went on. In one of _our _snowcats," she hissed through clenched teeth.

When his flashlight beam merged with hers he saw what looked like tank tracks heading off on a narrow, plowed trail.

"How do you know it was one of yours?"

She turned her light back onto the van in the ditch. He'd flung the door open with enough force to knock the snow off of the Pike National Forest Service emblem.

"Ouch, they're cocky," Dean said.

"There gonna regret bein' so cute when I get my hands on 'em," Abby snarled. "This is National Forest Service property. Stealing it's a federal offense!"

A small grin touched his lips. "Yeah, the bastards. And kidnapping's pretty serious too."

She ignored him. "This really ticks me off. He's laughing at us. You notice they aren't covering their tracks at all?" She headed for the trailer to unload the sleds as she fumed.

"I noticed. Could be they're in too much of a hurry."

"Yeah, or it could be they just don't think we're a threat."

"Well, they have a little surprise coming then, don't they?" Dean could barely see the flash of her grin through the blowing snow, but its ferociousness warmed his heart.

#####

By the time Sam had puzzled it out, his thoughts were moving like bubbles through tar. Ideas wended their way slowly up through the thickening murk to burst less and less frequently onto the surface of his brain. He stopped, swaying drunkenly in his tracks.

One of the bubbles popped dumping the word hypothermia into his brain. He dimly recalled that that condition would slow down his thinking, mess with his judgment as if he were drunk.

The shivering had almost stopped though. He had to be grateful for that. But his feet had turned into fifty pound ice blocks on the ends of his legs. He felt so tired. Maybe he could just take a little rest…

Another bubble burst.

_No_, _I have to stop them_. He and Abby and Dean had everything twisted. Jess got it right. Had their dad known? Probably not; didn't matter. Sam just knew that everything depended on him now. _I have to stop them, _he reasoned speciously._ I'm the only one here. _A surge of determination turned him around. At a weaving, unsteady lope he started back toward the waiting black toad.

####

The wind picked up as Abby and Dean packed and mounted their snowmobiles. It took Dean only a few fishtailing starts to get a feel for the sled. Visibility gave him the most trouble. The snow cutting across the beams of the headlights fell in steady diagonal lines tricking his brain into thinking he was always veering right. He kept his eyes focused as far ahead as he could, on the mounded right edge of the quickly filling trail.

"How far from here?" Dean shouted after they'd ridden for several minutes.

"We're almost to the clearing. Then fifty yards or so across open ground to the morados."

They burst out of the trees into the clearing. Abby heard another shout.

Dean spun his sled to the right sending a plume of snow arching up. His sled bucked over the mangled snow at the trails edge. He leapt off the seat.

"Dean, what's wrong?" Abby looped back around. She could barely make him out half running half jumping through the deep snow beside the trail. Just as she got her headlight on him, he fell to his knees next to a mound on the edge of the trail. _Oh God._

Dean reached into the snow muttering through clenched teeth, "Not Sam, not Sam." His fist closed around cloth. He pulled. Sam's body burst from the snow, pale, still as death. Dean ripped off his gloves, cradled his brother's head on his arm and shoved two fingers against the carotid artery in his neck. Sam's skin was rubbery, cold, but a faint pulse made Dean hiccup in a breath.

Abby leapt from her sled; its engine sputtered off. "Is he breathing," she gasped, into the sudden snowy silence.

"Barely."

"We've got to warm him up fast. Breathe into him."

"Abby, I said he's breathing on his own," Dean growled at her.

"Not _for_ him, _into_ him. Like this…" Abby leaned down till her mouth nearly covered Sam's then slowly breathed out. "Your breath will warm him from the inside."

Dean got the idea and nodded. She jumped up and followed the slashing headlight to Dean's sled and the CSPD duffel, shouting more instructions as she went. "It's hypothermia and it's deadly. Open your coat and his. Get your chest down as close to him as you can without putting any weight on him."

Sam's dark hair hung in frozen strands across his eyes. Dean gently brushed it aside and winced at the brittle feel of it. Sam's canvas jacket lay open, his shirt packed with snow, his body too cold to melt it. Dean brushed it clear with trembling hands and unzipped his borrowed parka. He leaned over Sam's body spreading the sides out to make a tent over them both and brought his face down over Sam's.

The angel pendant hung from Dean's neck fluttering between them. Dean gently laid his palm against Sam's chest. As his brother's chest slowly rose he breathed out into Sam's nose and mouth. "Come on Sammy, come on."

Abby pulled the parka Daryl had loaned them out of the duffel along with mittens, and a wool cap. Dreading what she'd See, but not daring to avoid assessing Sam's condition, she opened her Sight.

A sob caught in her throat.

Even on the darkest night, a normal aura would radiate enough to make a person easily visible to her. Sam's aura barely sputtered along the surface of his skin. There was no color to it, no lively pulsation. It was as if the light itself had frozen and thickened to slush.

They were too late. _Too damned late!_ She dropped her chin to her chest and swiped a hand across eyes gone watery.

When she looked up again a cry tangled in her throat. She stumbled back a step.

Dean's aura blazed. Her mouth flew open as she watched it grow.

Dean engulfed his brother in a ball of flickering flames.

AN: Gotta say, I like this chapter. I revised it tonight, June 2, 2011. Thanks for reading this far!


	17. Chapter 17, Any Shelter in a Storm

Chapter 17

"Wha th hell?" Sam said, frowning up at Dean blearily.

Dean pressed his forehead against his brother's, relief making him light headed. "Oh God, Sammy," he gasped weakly into Sam's face. "You scared the crap out a me."

Sam laid a hand against Dean's chest and shoved feebly. "D..don call me S…s…"

Dean choked out a laugh. "I know, I know. Sorry man." He heard the scrunch of boots in snow and looked up to see a wide, wondering smile on Abby's face. She stood in the falling snow with her arms full of gear.

"Abby, give me that stuff," Dean prodded her.

"Oh, yeah." She knelt beside them shaking her head. "Wow, Dean. Do you know what you just did? I mean, wow Dean!"

"Help me; we have to get this frozen jacket off him."

Abby shook her head again. Dean hadn't noticed that the canvas jacket was no longer frozen, but sopping wet.

Sam groaned as Dean lifted him.

"You hurt?"

"Some. M..mossly c..col."

"Yeah. We're gonna fix that." They peeled off the wet coat. All three struggled to get Sam's arms into the parka; his movements were clumsy, more of a hindrance than a help. When they finally zipped the thick down parka snugly up to his neck, he let out a shaky sigh.

Abby tugged the wool cap onto his head then found each hand and checked his fingers for frostbite. She could see no evidence of the condition that could have, _should have_ cost him his fingers. But, by the time Dean got him into dry socks and boots, Sam was trembling uncontrollably. Abby'd seen enough hypothermia to know that Dean might have brought Sam back from the brink, but he was still in danger as long as they were outside.

She took stock. The snow fell faster than ever. They'd been working instinctively with their backs to the wind. When she looked around, it pounded into her face with random, breathtaking gusts. It'd take them at least an hour to make it back to the SUV; that's if they could keep Sam on a sled and alive. Digging in, trying to rig up some kind of shelter right here would mean an even more likely death sentence for all three of them. Even with all the right gear it'd be tough to survive the night out in this and they didn't have all the right gear. The weather service said that the snow would likely taper off by midnight, but then they'd lose the cloud cover and the temperature would plummet. They hadn't come prepared for this kind of a rescue.

"Dean. We have to get to shelter," Abby shouted.

"I know," he said.

Abby could barely make out the snowmobiles just ten feet away; their headlights slicing through the darkness seemed to emerge from nowhere. The track left by the stolen snowcat was only a slight indentation leading up the hillside. The grim look on Dean's face told her she wouldn't have to argue with him. His thoughts had taken the same bitter path as hers. There was only one shelter they could hope to reach.

Dean tipped his head toward the quickly disappearing trail. "We need to get moving."

She fought down a surge of panic. _Damn it, just like last time._ She felt circumstances twisting, herding them along. Yes, they'd planned to confront the demon in the ruins, but not like this.

She jumped. Dean had touched her cheek with icy cold fingers.

"You're not alone."

Despite the wind and the muffling parka hoods, she heard him clearly; or maybe just read his lips or his eyes. They gazed at her calm and clear. Abby reached up and squeezed his outstretched hand. She managed a smile.

She went to the sled for the red Ski Patrol duffel, then they each grabbed an arm and hauled Sam to his feet.

"Sam, you gotta walk," Dean yelled. The wind snatched away both words and breath, but Sam jerked his head up and down in what Dean accepted as a nod. Heads bent into the wind they kept their eyes glued to the trail and plowed doggedly up the rise.

Dean didn't realize how far they'd come till Sam planted his feet and pulled them up short.

"What's wrong?" he shouted, then followed Sam's gaze up.

Despite a face full of snow, he made out the silhouette of a huge tree. The twisted black branches creaked and swayed as the wind made them dance.

"No. N…no, D…Dean!" Sam's teeth chattered so hard he could barely get the words out.

"It's ok, Sammy. We've got to get out of this storm." Dean hated to do this to him, he knew his brother was living his nightmare. "Come on, Abby!" They both tightened their grips and forced him on.

Past the tree, the ground sloped down into the hollow. The dark morados, much larger than Dean had expected looked oddly softened by the heavy layer of snow covering the jagged, caved-in roof. Dean guided them off the snowcat's track. He hoped they'd run into the wall of the low addition Sam had sketched jutting out from the side of the main building.

He and Abby were gasping with the effort of dragging Sam through the deep snow by the time they hit the wall. Dean kept them moving. They rounded the back corner and ducked into a dark entry way. A solid wooden door blocked the entrance. Still carrying most of Sam's semiconscious weight on one arm, he yanked the door's handle with his free hand. It opened no more than a crack.

"Let me try," Abby shouted. She let go of Sam then got down on hands and knees and dug the snow away from the base of the door. With one foot braced against the wall, she pulled. Three good jerks and it was open. Abby slipped through.

Dean gasped. Missed a clumsy grab for her. "Damn it!" He hung back, eyes glued to the dark rectangle, straining to hear any cry for help. When Abby finally stuck her head around the door and gestured them to come on, Dean started breathing again.

She shined a flashlight on the ground, lighting their way over two treacherously crumbling steps.

Dean leaned his brother against the wall. "Keep him upright for a second," he told Abby. She moved next to Sam and wrapped her arm around his waist.

Dean pulled the heavy wooden door closed. The noise and fury of the storm went dull, the sudden quiet stuffing his ears like cotton. The only sounds now were their labored breathing and the occasional creek as the old timber roof adjusted to the weight of snow.

The long, dark hallway diminished to the size of a rabbit hole in the flashlight beam. Its low ceiling leaked snow like cascading fairy dust that piled up on the floor. The rough stone walls were draped with the cobwebs Abby pulled from her hair.

"Nobody's been this way in a very long time," she whispered. "I got a face full of frozen cobwebs when I stepped through. No tracks either in the snow or in the debris on the floor."

"We're too exposed here," Dean said.

"There are small rooms all along the left side. This must have been the monk's dormitory wing. Let's find one with the roof intact then I can work on Sam."

The second door they tried opened into a relatively snow-free room. Cramped and low, no more than a ten by ten foot square, it looked like a prison cell to Dean. One long narrow slit in the outside wall seemed a stingy way to let in air and light. Fortunately for them, it was covered by a wooden shutter that still did a decent job of keeping out the elements. The remains of a crumbling wooden cot and a small table were the only hints of any furniture. On the wall above the rotting cot a rusted set of manacles dangled. Dean shivered. Not a happy place.

They laid Sam on the gritty floor. Dean took off his cap and gloves to form a makeshift cushion for Sam's head. While he double checked the mittens and snugged Sam's wool cap down, Abby moved her flashlight around the walls. She stopped the light on an iron sconce that held a very rusty, old oil lamp.

"Good enough," she whispered and headed to it.

Dean was about to protest her taking the light when he heard her mutter a few words and watched her blow gently on the lamp. It lit, filling the room with a mellow flood of light. Abby turned the flashlight off and dropped it into her pocket. Dean gaped at her.

"How did you do that?"

She dropped her duffel beside Sam and started pulling out supplies: a thermos, a candle, little packets of herbs. When Abby stopped and looked up at him, a tiny smile momentarily lifted the tense set of her lips. "The lamp remembers."

He arched a brow at her. "Oh. Sure."

Dean felt a hand at his elbow and looked down to see Sam's face pinched with effort. He was trying to talk past chattering teeth, couldn't manage.

"Sam, you're gonna be alright." His brother's eyes looked desperately afraid. "Abby, he's shivering like hell. Can you hurry with whatever cocktail you're servin'?"

When Abby didn't respond, he looked up impatiently.

Her eyes were wide, the thermos frozen in her hands, tipped over the cup.

"Abby?"

"Shhhh. Listen," she hissed.

Dean stopped breathing, literally, straining over the sudden pounding in his ears to hear what had put that look on Abby's face.

Voices. A deep, rasping chant somewhere far off in another part of the ruins. Dean felt a tingling flush run along the surface of his skin as every hair on his body attempted to stand up under the weight of winter gear.

Abby's head jerked toward the open door. A heartbeat...two... Dean heard a new sound.

Out of the inky blackness, just outside the door, a low phlegmy laugh echoed.

AN: My most sincere thanks to you folks who are regularly reviewing! You keep my spirits up and the chapters coming.


	18. Chapter 18, Twists in the Dark

Chapter 18

Abby whimpered; a panicky animal sound that sent a flare of outrage through Dean. Without a conscious thought, one hand curled into an iron grip around a handful of parka on his brother's chest, the other pulled out the Beretta and swung it toward the door.

"Get the witch," the voice outside rasped.

In the space of a blink, a black, ragged figure sprang out of the dark and straight over Dean's head moving faster than he could track. He got off two rounds that cracked like whips to his ear drums.

The lamp went out.

"Abby!" Dean heard a scuffle from the far corner of the cell then nothing; absolutely nothing. Blind, he dared not swing the gun in her direction. He kept it aimed as near as he could to the doorway. Sam shivered violently under his grip.

The laugh rippled out in hideous mockery.

"Where are you, you son of a bitch?" Dean roared.

"Lux," the voice wheezed, and the room filled with a lurid red light.

Dean's blood went cold. A black, leather scarecrow pinned Abby's arms against the wall above her head in the corner of the tiny room. The thing gripped a jagged blade; its tip dimpled her throat. Abby's breath came in shallow gasps. Her wide, terrified eyes were fixed on the doorway.

"Let her go!" As Dean half rose from Sam's side, Vetis Izar Garanth stepped into the cell.

It was the old man from the street, Abby's neighbor. He'd gone from Senator Palpatine to evil emperor. His shoulders stooped under the priestly robes he'd exchanged for the snappy business coat he'd worn that first day, but it was definitely the same guy. Skin hung loose and sickly pale on his bony face. Dark circles made his eyes look like two holes with cloudy yellow marbles at the bottom. Breath rattled in his chest like he was rotting from the inside.

Dean cocked the hammer of the gun and aimed it squarely at the thing's chest. "Let her go. Now."

The demon's mouth curved into a nasty grin. "Interesting dilemma," he said. "Will you leave your brother's side to save the witch?"

"Don't have to. When I blow you away your puppet priest will lose its strings. Kill two bastards with one stone, so to speak." Dean prayed that Abby's theory about the connection between demon and priests was right and that he wasn't bluffing.

The old man's eyes narrowed to jaundiced yellow slits then abruptly his face relaxed. He lifted his chin and nonchalantly waved a bony hand.

"Your bullets would merely inconvenience me." Vetis's eyes went to Abby, still helpless under the priest. "It would take only a flick of the wrist to slit her throat." He nodded slowly. "But as you see, I haven't taken her life...yet. I spare her now as a gesture of good will."

"If you're looking to make some kind of trade, forget it. I'm not interested." Sam struggled feebly; Dean tightened his grip on the parka. "I figure to stick to my original plan."

The demon leaned one rounded shoulder against the door frame, completely unruffled by the threat. "You might try it. Even if the witch dies, you and the dreamer might manage to escape this sanctuary…out into the storm. I doubt, however that your brother would fare well." Another grin stretched his mouth. "It's cold as hell out there."

Dean clamped his jaw down on a growl of frustration as the accuracy of that statement called his bluff.

The demon smiled sadly. "Your range of options is quite narrow."

Dean could feel the burn starting in the shoulder of his gun hand. His other hand was clenched so hard around Sam's parka it ached. He'd give himself no longer than three minutes to keep this stand-off going.

Fear gnawed his belly, but fear he could handle. His answer to terror when neither fight nor flight is an immediate option - annoy your opponent.

He unballed the fist that clutched Sam's parka and laid his hand flat on his brother's chest. _Hang on Sam.  
_

"You know, you look like hell." Dean said with an easy smile. "My guess is you're runnin' outa juice. Sending nightmares, whipping your coven into shape, makin' your scarecrows dance…" He tipped his head to the back corner never taking his eyes off the demon. "…that's gotta take a lot out of an old man. Especially since my dad and a little old granny kicked your butt last time you tried to recharge." Dean heard a squeaky, only slightly hysterical giggle from behind him. He gave an inward sigh of relief; Abby was coming around.

The demon's eyes flared. The sympathetic smile slipped.

It was Dean's turn to smirk. "I figure if we just sit here jawin' for a while you'll eventually keel over."

Dean flexed cold fingers around the Beretta and flirted with the impulse to pull the trigger and take their chances. Then he felt Sam take a deep shuddering breath against his palm. His brother's mittened hand closed firmly around Dean's wrist. Dean risked a glance down. Their eyes met and Sam's were sharp and clear. Maybe there was a chance.

He looked back and Vetis's smile had disappeared entirely. The demon had noticed Sam's awakening.

"You waste your powers, Guardian. I'd hoped for your cooperation; an exchange of your own free will." Vetis's face twisted angrily. "But as you have pointed out, I haven't the time to persuade you here."

Dean caught movement in the dark behind the old man; the second priest appeared at his shoulder. _Damn. _Sam struggled to get his elbows under him, but Dean pushed him back. "Stay down."

"Dean…"

A rough cry erupted from behind them. Dean spun around, half expecting to see a red ribbon of blood at Abby's throat.

The priest growled and pulled away, releasing Abby. She jumped back. It slashed out, but it no longer held a knife. The confused priest clutched a bright, pink Popsicle on a little wooden stick. Dean caught Abby's eyes. The terror there had been joined with fury and a tight smile that sparked and fizzed with energy.

"It's an illusion you fool!" the demon shouted. "Kill her!"

"Dean shoot him!" Abby screamed at the same time.

Time slowed. Dean saw Abby bring a knee up fast and hard into the priest's groin. She slammed a solid strike to its wrist and the Popsicle clattered to the floor with a disconcertingly metallic clang. Dean's eyes shot back to the priest as Sam began to struggle. This time Dean pulled his brother to his hands and knees and took a new grip on the back of Sam's parka.

Just as Dean's eyes met his target and his finger tightened on the trigger, they were plunged into dark as black as pitch.

Two shots rattled brains in quick succession, but didn't hit their mark. The demon's voice floated impossibly around the room rasping out commands; always out of reach. A chaos of limbs and blows, curses and groans ensued in the blackness. The three allies fought by feel; any long, flowing cloth indicating a target.

Sam tried to stay out of Dean and Abby's way without leaving his brother's side; a tricky business. He didn't have the strength to put up a decent fight, but he strained all his senses to keep track of Dean.

His brother's grunt of pain snapped Sam's head around. "Dean!" He felt Dean lose his grip on the parka.

Abby screamed his name. In both their efforts to launch themselves in Dean's direction, Abby and Sam collided. Went down.

"Take the guardian! Lock them in," the demon's said.

"No!" A booming crack. The shriek of rusty metal. As suddenly as it had begun, the fight was over.

Sam opened his arms and eyes wide, searching the dark. "Dean?" Beside him Abby's breath hitched. "Dean? Abby, is he here?"

"Oh God, Sam." Abby found Sam's arm and squeezed it. "They took him," she gasped, sounding utterly bewildered. "They took _him_."

AN: Oh yeah, ya gotta love the twists and turns. ;)


	19. Chapter 19, Divide and Conquer

Chapter 19

The fight bounced Dean off the walls, sent him rolling and tumbling through the debris on the floor. It was like being pitched off a raft... at night... in 5 scale white water. When he was lucky enough to land a punch, bring down one priest, the other jumped him like tag team wrestlers, fighting dirty. They pushed him further and further from Abby and Sam in an irresistible current. The tiny part of his brain not engaged in staying alive knew that fact as a bright spot in an otherwise rotten situation. Sam and Abby were, if not safe, at least out of this nightmare.

The Beretta was long gone. He couldn't tell about the sleeping potion in his pocket, but even if he could get to it, in this chaos he'd probably give _himself _a face full. At some point he got his hand on the knife at his belt. He swung it out wide, felt it plunge with a satisfying thunk into something firm and meaty. But the punctured priest dropped back, twisted the knife handle out of his grip. Another weapon lost.

Despite those losses and the pain, Dean didn't panic. Until he felt the priests start to strip him. The parka went first, then the flannel shirt. When his t-shirt ripped away, he felt his skin contract like shrink wrap against the cold. Winter gear made decent armor, without it, getting thrown against the stone walls was a whole new experience in pain.

The priests smelled the new quality to his fear. They lunged in unison driving him to the floor.

Dean flailed, flat on his back, out of control in a tangle of punching, gouging limbs and fetid breath. When he felt teeth sink into his bare side, he sucked in a breath to scream. A bony fist hammered his chin.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

###

After several frantic minutes of floundering blindly in the dark, Abby found the flashlight. She briefly examined the formidable iron lock on the door, gave it a couple of tentative shoves with no results, then bent to Sam.

He was on his knees, arms wrapped around his chest shivering again. Wordlessly, Abby trained the light around the tiny cell till she spotted the lamp. She went to it, spoke her spell and lit it.

Sam scooted along the floor till he could lean his back against the wall. He pulled the parka tight around him, clenched his jaw trying not to let his teeth chatter.

"Why c…can't I stay warm?"

"Because you don't have Dean working his mojo on you," Abby said, her voice flat. She began methodically gathering up the supplies strewn around the cell then knelt beside him again.

"What d'ya mean?"

"Dean brought you back when we first found you outside. He warmed your body, cured the frostbite." She held up a hand to silence his next question. "I don't know how. Maybe Dean's been doing this since you guys were little kids and nobody ever Saw it. He wasn't even aware of it happening; just did it."

Sam studied Abby's trembling hands as she dropped herbs and other unidentifiable things from several packets into the open thermos. The idea that Dean had some kind of healing powers was just too much to take in at the moment.

"Dean brought you back, but not far enough for your own body's thermostat to kick on. As long as we're in the cold you're gonna keep slipping back." Abby paused, gently swirling the thermos. "This…" she lifted it briefly, "…is why we came here. So I could get this potion into you."

Abby brought the thermos to her lips, closed her eyes and breathed into the opening. On each of three breaths she spoke a word. Sam caught only _calidus_. The liquid began to boil sending droplets spattering out the top of the thermos. Steam spewed like a miniature geyser for just a second then subsided. He arched a brow when she handed it to him.

"It's gonna hurt like hell," Abby told him. "I can't be nearly as…organic about it as Dean. But it'll warm you up quick."

Sam sniffed. The potion smelled of cinnamon. The rim of the thermos clattered against his teeth as he brought it to his mouth and Abby reached over to steady his hands. Before he tipped it up he looked at her.

"All of it," she answered before he could ask.

Sam swallowed it down.

It tasted like Red Hots laced with habaneros and lava. It burned all the way to his stomach. Sam nearly dropped the thermos, stifled a yelp as pins and needles worked their way out from his gut like he'd swallowed an angry swarm of bees. She was right; it hurt like hell, but it was working. He broke out in a sweat.

Abby didn't seem aware of his distress. She stared at the door, her face stony. "I panicked," she whispered.

Sam frowned. Then tried, but couldn't get any words past his clenched teeth.

"I heard the chant…that voice." She shuddered. "I was right back there on that altar." A tear traced through a red smear on her cheek. "Damn it!"

"Wasn't your fault," Sam managed. He expelled a quick breath and could have sworn smoke plumed in front of his face. He waved it away with one mittened hand. "It happens. You came out of it fast. The bomb-pop was brilliant." He tried a grin, but it turned into a grimace.

"It worked," Abby admitted with a little sniff. "But we didn't expect them to go for…" She shook her head and swallowed hard.

Sam stood unsteadily. The bees had worked their way out to his hands and feet now; energy like intravenous caffeine came with them. Abby caught his elbow to steady him for a moment then he started to pace the small cell, stripping off the mittens and letting them drop.

"You didn't expect them to go for Dean," he said. "I did." Sam struck the wall with the side of his fist. He turned and took four long strides to the other one. "I should have warned him. Couldn't get the words out."

"Warned him?"

"Vetis wanted him all along, not me." He unzipped the parka with one hard jerk.

"How do you know that?"

"Jess was trying to tell me. Out there in the snow her words started to make sense. I figured it out."

"But why? Did she tell you…"

"No!" He was burning up. The stone floor felt like hot asphalt on the soles of his feet. He started to take off the coat. Abby stopped him and tugged it back up onto his shoulders. He glared at her.

"Leave it on," she said evenly.

"Damn it, Abby," he snapped and jerked the coat back on.

"Vetis called him 'Guardian'," Abby said.

"Yeah." Sam snorted bitterly. "The nightmares, the friggin' daymare, all of it just to bring me here..." His voice rose. "…all because they knew Dean would track me to hell and back. I was nothing but BAIT! We have to get out of here!" Sam threw his shoulder against the door. When it didn't yield, he kicked it hard just above the lock. It might as well have been a stone slab. "You God-damned-son-of-a-bitch!" Sam roared with one last ineffectual kick. He stood for a moment glaring at it then turned and slumped down against the door.

Abby watched him warily. "You warm now?" she asked. She reached down, scooped up the wool cap. "Put this on."

Sam raked his fingers through sweaty hair, gave her a flinty glance.

"Please," she added to soften the mutinous look in his eyes.

Sam snatched the cap out of her hands, put it on.

She wasn't offended. Abby'd been about to attack the damn door herself, but with that potion coursing through him, he made a far better battering ram even if he hadn't accomplished a thing.

Abby's eyes narrowed as she studied the lock again. There had to be a spell on it or on the door or both. Possibilities trotted through her mind. Prudently, she decided to start with the simplest solution. She'd try the mundane approach first.

"You any good at picking locks?"

Sam looked at her, then back over his shoulder at the lock. The corners of his lips twitched up. "Oh, yeah."


	20. Chapter 20, Black Mass

Chapter 20

Dean surfaced out of a very bad dream to a dull ache that throbbed behind his eyes with every beat of his heart.

Someone moaned. The thought sluggishly crossed his mind that it was probably him.

Ugly grating voices synchronized to the throbbing in his head. Dean shrank from them. He'd have sunken back into the dark but for a sudden, sharp pain that rent a strangled curse from his lips.

His eyes flew open. The ceiling writhed and twitched. It took him several seconds to force the living walls to become shadows cast by firelight. Pain lanced up his arms. He rolled his head to the side to find himself nose to nose with a priest. There was a distinct crook to that nose that Dean sincerely hoped he'd put there.

It fixed its filmy, yellow eyes on his, stretched its lips in a sorry excuse for a grin. It lifted a dull metal bowl, sides smeared with blood, wasn't hard to guess whose. Dean felt it dripping from the tips of his fingers.

The last of the haze burned away. He tried to raise his hands. Couldn't. Rough stone pressed into his bare back. The altar was no wider than his shoulders; his arms hung down either side, tied to the floor somehow. He felt his ankles secured too. He wiggled his toes. Still had on Poppa Graham's boots. Dean let out a shuddering breath absurdly relieved. He still had on his jeans. They hadn't stripped him bare. He gritted his teeth, lifted his head, found the source of the writhing walls…

A bonfire burned on a raised platform of stone. Black smoke billowed and pooled on the ceiling before escaping through a jagged hole. Snowflakes kamikazeed into the low, dancing flames. Through the hole, a wooden cross hung inverted over the flames. The snow that blanketed it melted, dripping into the fire as if the cross were bleeding. He thought of Sam's drawing_. _

_Why do we always have to be right?_

Tendrils of black smoke coiled down from the base of the fire. It settled on the floor in a dark, oily parody of the snow outside.

_Oh my God._ He could make out faces bobbing up from the stuff like drowning swimmers. Six of them, human, pale - mouths vomiting out the chant. Their sunken eyes fixed on him sparkling darkly in the firelight.

The coven.

Dean jerked as the tendrils of smoke snaked quickly up the altar to lick at the soles of his boots. He strained against the ropes. Let out a long, loud, internal curse._ This SUUUUUCKSSS!_

_What's the good news, Dean? Gotta be an up side here. Don't panic. I'm still alive. I'm warm. _He swallowed a semi-hysterical laugh at that. _And _I'm_ tied to this slab, instead of Sam. _

Dean felt his pulse slow. Abby and Sam were alive. Their original plan that could still work; the roles had just shifted a bit. They'd be coming for him. All he had to do was buy them time.

The demon's gurgling laugh came from behind Dean's head. It sent a shiver down his back that totally screwed his newly won calm.

"Please don't struggle. You'll only damage the vessel."

"This vessel is sailin' with _me_ in it, you son of a bitch."

He jerked, startled when Vetis touched him. Rough fingers caressed his shoulder - intimate, possessive. They ran across his bare chest, down his side. A jab when the hand reached the bite mark at Dean's waist forced a yelp past his lips.

"Unfortunate," the demon murmured sounding more like he meant, _delightful,_ or _goody_. "This always goes so much more smoothly when the chosen one submits of his own free will."

"Don't count on it," Dean growled.

Vetis ignored the comment, his eyes drinking in Dean's body from head to toe. "Ah, Guardian," he sighed, "It has been too long since I rode a body at its peak." He shifted his gaze to Dean's face. "And this one comes with so many entertaining fringe benefits."

Dean barely kept himself from squirming under the intense scrutiny. The demon went back to examining him, squeezing his calf, testing its firmness through his jeans.

"What's with the guardian crap?" Dean barked out. He had to get the demon talking to stop his touching.

Vetis looked up, brows raised. "Your father kept you completely in the dark." He shook his head. "Had he informed you of your destiny, you might have been better prepared. You might not have left your…" Vetis paused as his lip curled, "… angel-touched brother alone and vulnerable."

"What are you talking about?" Dean tried to clear his head, but his attention kept snagging on the blood still dripping off his fingers, the coven still grumbling like a pack of whining hyenas. He tried for just the right note of desperation to keep the demon talking. It wasn't difficult. "What destiny? What hasn't my father told me?"

Vetis responded with a smug smile. "Suffice it to say, _my_ father has big plans for your little brother and I have big plans for you."

"Me? You never wanted Sam?" Relief and dread tangled in his mind. He clung to the relief. _Not Sam._

Vetis lifted his lips off yellowing teeth. "I would not take your brother and deprive my father of his prize. I interfered once, long ago." His face soured at the memory, then his eyes lit. "But my father will welcome me back riding thisssss..." Vetis ran a twisted fingernail down the side of Dean's face, along his throat then leaned close to whisper, "_Your_ father will not be so pleased with _you_ after tonight." His chuckle dissolved into a gurgling cough.

"I'll show you a little of your squandered potential." He reached for the pendant, miraculously still around Dean's neck. "Your talisman." The demon turned the silver angel, examining it. "A powerful defense. If only you knew how to use it." He brought his wrinkled lips down to the angel and blew.

Dean hissed in a breath. An icy wave shook him. "What the hell was that!" he gasped.

"Mother's love," Vetis said acidly still staring at the pendant. "Such a nuisance." He frowned. Dean expected him to rip the angel off his neck, but he suddenly dropped it and spun away.

"Time grows short!" The demon's voice cracked like a whip. The chant ratcheted back into the foreground, the cadence quickening with Dean's pulse. The priests materialized at the demon's sides. "You _will_ submit to me of your own free will!"

"Fat chance, old man."

The demon's answering laugh grated like broken glass. The crook-nosed priest drew out a knife, pulled up Vetis's belled sleeve, sliced the demon's skin. Dean's stomach churned as black ichor oozed from the cut. The second priest caught the flow in two bowls, one already half full of Dean's blood. To the other he added melting snow that flowed from the bleeding cross in a tiny cascade. The bowl filled in seconds. He set it on the ground at Dean's right shoulder.

Vetis began a slow counter-clockwise circle around the altar.

Crook-nose picked up a burning stick by the fire. Tendrils of the unnatural, black smoke leapt to cling to it. He set it down at the corner of the altar at Dean's feet.

This was beginning to look familiar; a twisted parody of Abby's circle around Sam, a Wiccan black mass. Dean remembered Abby's call to Water, Fire, Earth and Air; the beauty and power of it. He felt with uneasy certainty that the demon's version would have far more power and none of the beauty. He shifted on the stone, still finding no play in the ropes that bound him to it.

The priests set a large, flat stone by Dean's left shoulder, a smoldering lump of rank brimstone at his feet. The demon knelt beside the bite mark on Dean's side, took up the bowl of bloody water. "Last chance, Guardian," Vetis said. "Submit to me of your own free will."

"Fu…" Dean began. Hard hands pressed his shoulders down. A vice-like grip forced his jaws open. Vetis raised the bloody bowl.

Dean had only a split second to realize what was about to happen. His eyes flew wide. Vetis tipped the bowl's sickening contents into his open mouth. Dean struggled, choked as his throat filled. When the liquid spilled over his cheeks, down his neck, the priests released him. The demon stepped back, speaking a spell in a language like watery Klingon.

Dean turned his head and spat.

His mouth immediately filled again.

The iron taste of blood, stagnant water, putrid meat rushed down his throat almost before he could clamp off access to his lungs. He spat again.

His mouth filled again.

A choking cough forced the stuff out his nose, sprayed his chest. No room for air; not a chance in hell. He struggled, desperate. His lungs burned. Black spots danced in his vision.

His body, like all drowning men's must, betrayed him. With his mouth still full, reflex forced him to heave in a breath. Pollution flooded his chest, sent him into spasms - coughing - breathing in the bloody mixture.

Dean felt himself dying.

Vetis went silent.

And it was over.

Dean coughed till his chest cramped. When he had breath to speak, he turned his head. "That all you got?" he rasped.

Vetis pressed his lips into a thin line. He jerked his head to Crook Nose.

The damaged priest leaned to the East corner of the slab - fire.

Dean clamped down hard on his imagination. He let his mind turn instead to the image of Abby in the moonlight; all grace and white magic. She filled his mind like a soothing salve; smoothed the raw edges of his terror affording him a few seconds to steel himself for whatever came next.

The priest handed Vetis a burning stick. He raised it up, grated out the ugly words of new spell. A wisp of black mist thickened, till a black slug of smoke, glistened and twisted from the end of the fire brand. The demon dangled it over Dean's calf. With a flick of the wrist, dropped it.

Dean flinched, cursed. The thing was hot, getting hotter. It writhed up his leg. His jeans smoldered in its wake. Pain stretched him to the point of screaming, but he set his jaws, sucked in gasps through his teeth.

It reached the top of his thigh, red hot cracks opened in its black surface like cooling lava. At his hip, the pain demanded sound, he let out a stream of vicious threats.

When the lava slug finally reached past the waistband of his jeans, touched bare flesh, Dean flung his head back.

Words dissolved.

Into screams.


	21. Chapter 21, Of His Own Free Will

AN: Everybody's sensibilities seem to have survived in tact, so let's plunge on!

Chapter 21

Though the burning had stopped, Sam still paced the cell, coat open, his boots loudly crunching in the years of dirt accumulated on the stone floor.

"This is taking- too- LONG!"

Half an hour ago his hands had stopped shaking. He'd tried to pick the lock with tools Abby supplied from her pack. Sam was very, very good with locks. He'd been able to pick a lock faster than Dean since he was ten years old. The antique mechanism should've been a piece of cake. Sam slapped his palm against the door above Abby's head.

She didn't jump, just gritted her teeth. "You're not helping, Sam." She swiped a hand across the sheen of sweat on her forehead and jerked the zipper of her parka down.

Crouched in front of the lock, Abby was on her third spell. First she'd tried the direct approach. She'd spoken to the lock just as she had to the lamp; tried to get it to remember being open. It ignored her. Next she'd tried speeding up the natural corrosion process; the lock should have flaked away to rust. It didn't. Now, if Sam would stop stomping around and let her concentrate, she'd attempt a very complicated process of freezing and thawing water in the lock; the next best thing to sticking a cherry bomb in the mechanism.

She focused, muttering her spell and watched lacy frost form around the key hole. The water she'd asked to stand in the hole turned to ice for the tenth time. Nothing happened…again.

"Damn, damn, damn!" Abby pounded the lock with her fist wishing desperately for extremely non-magical plastic explosives. She pushed herself up and away from the door with a curse. The wind outside howled its sympathy.

Sam and Abby circled each other, both too strung-out to settle in one spot.

Sam dragged his fingers through his hair; the wool cap dropped, forgotten again. "We have to get out of here!"

"I know!"

"You know what they're doing to him!"

"Better than you, Sam!" Abby glared at him.

"Ahhhhhg!" Sam threw his arms open wide. "Abby, I can pick any lock. Hell, this one's a damned antique, I should be able to kick it to pieces!" To demonstrate he applied his boot heel with force, the boom echoed like another gunshot in the tiny room.

"You think I don't know that?" Abby yelled, wincing at the sound. "My spells should have worked too. I don't understand!"

"Why are we still stuck in here?"

"I don't know!"

"Why aren't we out there saving Dean?"

"I don't KNOW!"

They stood glaring at each other panting out plumes of fog that hung in the air like a solid barrier between them.

Suddenly Abby reached up and grabbed a fist full of Sam's jacket at each shoulder. She jerked him to her, sliding her arms inside his coat, around his waist and squeezed him in a desperate, crushing hug. She buried her face against his chest and refused to let him go when he tried to step back.

He stood rigid for a moment, startled. Then his breath hitched in his chest. Abby's head gave a little bounce. The warmth of her body began to soak into tensed muscles. The place where her sharp exhalations hit his chest made a hot spot right over his heart. Finally of their own volition, his arms curved around her. With an explosive sigh, Sam unwound and let his chin rest on the top of her head.

Abby and Sam stood together letting the pounding of their hearts subside; each one's slower, deeper breaths coaxing the other's down.

Finally, after several silent moments, she spoke against his chest. "It'll take some time; preparing him."

"Torturing him, you mean."

She didn't answer, but he felt her nod. "They worked on me for days before they started the ritual."

"They don't have that kind of time."

"I know. They must be…I can't imagine…"

Sam tightened his arms around her; whether to comfort her or just stop her from going on he didn't know.

"Dean'll fight him. That'll give us some time," Sam said and loosened his hold. He stepped away from her. His brain had the upper hand again and a new thought had emerged that he wanted to follow.

"We saw the demon before, at your house."

Abby's eyes went wide. "My house? In my yard?"

"No, no; at the curb. He said he was your neighbor. That's how we knew to come to the station."

"He knew where I'd be?"

"Yeah."

She swallowed. "That's disturbing."

"He's changed though…like the life's drained out of him in the past few days."

"He's using the last of his resources keeping that body going. He's about six years past his 'sell by' date."

"Can that help us?"

"Maybe." She started to pace, but stopped almost immediately, looking thoughtfully at the lock. "He shouldn't have enough power to waste on this door. It takes a lot of energy to wrap something with a spell adaptive enough to counter everything we've thrown at it. I'm not sure demons even do magic like that. They're all about illusion and deception."

"We've missed something." Sam said.

"Yeah."

"Illusion and deception, huh?" Sam mused.

Abby watched him and nodded as Sam took his turn around the cell. "Like your bomb-pop?"

"That kind of trick would be more natural for a demon."

"Could we be dreaming? Could our bodies be lying on the floor? All the lock picking just an illusion?"

"No." She shook her head still studying the door. "That'd take way too much effort. He'd need to focus the whole coven on us like he probably did to send the nightmare to you. Right now they'll be focused on…" She stopped with a grimace.

"Yeah. There has to be something else."

Sam heard Abby take in a squeaky little gasp and looked up. Her eyes were huge, her lips parted.

"Oh my God." She took one giant step to the door and starting at the top, began to run her hands over its surface, tapping and probing the wood with her fingers every few inches.

"What?" Sam joined her; no idea yet what they were doing.

"The bastard stole my idea! This lock is a bomb-pop!"

"What?"

"The lock is the illusion. That's why my spells won't work. That's why you couldn't pick it or kick it to pieces. It's not real, which means it's _not what's holding the door closed."_

Sam's brows shot up; he got it and his heart leapt. He pressed his fingertips into the top left side of the door and began to work his way down heedless of the splinters that nipped at his skin from the old weathered oak. "What are we looking for?"

"We'll know it when we feel it…. Ahh!" Abby jerked her hand back from the door with a yelp. She flung her fingers out as if something nasty clung to them and looked a little sick.

"Did you find something?"

"Ugh. Oh yeah."

"Where?" He already had his fingers near the spot hers had leapt from.

"Center, near the top. Be careful there's a nasty aversion charm on that spot."

"Oh God." Sam grimaced and fought down a sudden surge of bile in his throat. "I think I found it." He forced his fingers back to the spot and explored the boundaries of the charm.

"It's just another illusion," Abby said trying to offer some comfort while she screwed her face up in sympathy for every moment he had his fingers in that charm. "It won't actually hurt us. I don't think."

Sam breathed through his open mouth, saliva pooling as he fought down nausea. "I think it's an opening; a window in the door."

"Will my arm fit through it?"

"Mine will." He shook his head when Abby started to protest. "My arms are longer. I'll be able to reach further down the other side."

Sam tentatively pressed his hand against the center of the charmed spot. There was resistance, the sensation of sticking his hand in raw sewage made his stomach spasm. His arm seemed to be disappearing into solid wood as he pressed it on through.

Sam turned a triumphant, if sickly grin to Abby when his hand reached something protruding from the door on the outside. "It feels like a plank set in brackets across the door."

"Can you move it?"

"It's heavy." Sam set his teeth, rose up onto his toes to give his arm as much reach as possible and got a grip on the underside of what felt like a broad oak beam. He gripped it and pulled straight up. No luck.

"Damn. They didn't drop the board into place. The brackets must be complete loops. They slid it in from the side. I'm gonna have to move the damn thing sideways." He hooked his fingers under the heavy plank and yanked. It moved, barely.

"Sam, you still ok? Let me take a shot."

He shook his head both to clear it and to warn her away. "You're too short." Sam was concentrating too hard to be anything but blunt. He grunted with the effort and was rewarded with another inch of movement. "It's coming."

Abby barely kept herself from grabbing Sam by the collar and shoving him away from the door so she could have a go. She ground her teeth and turned to the pack on the floor instead.

Their arsenal, tiny and insignificant as it appeared to her at the moment, awaited deployment. She dropped a perfume bottle into her pocket and stood to put one in Sam's too. He frowned down at her looking green around the eyes. "The sleeping potion's in your pocket," Abby told him then reached up and wiped a drop of sweat off his forehead before going back to the pack.

"Almost got it," Sam panted.

Abby held the day-glow orange holy-water guns up to the dim lamp light to check that both were topped off. No leaks. They each held about of pint of holy-water. She winced when she realized that Dean had the exorcism book in his pocket. No help for it. They'd just have to come up with something else. Lastly, she felt the familiar, comforting weight of the bracelet on her wrist; her father's gift to her on her tenth birthday. It had been useless to her the first time she'd met Vetis; a trinket not a talisman. This time would be different.

She whirled around when a muffled scrape then the hollow, reverberating thump of a heavy plank hitting stone came through the door. Sam had it.

He jerked his arm back through the door then spun and collapsed against it. Sam braced his hands on his knees, his head hanging and drew in slow, deliberate breaths through his mouth. Abby put a hand on his shoulder.

"You ok?"

Sam swallowed and looked up at her, then held up a finger. He didn't quite trust himself to speak without throwing up on her shoes. When he finally nodded and straightened, she handed him the water gun.

"Ready? I'm gonna switch off the lamp and go to the flash light."

"Do it."

With a quiet word of thanks to the lamp, they were plunged into darkness. She flipped on the flashlight and shone it on the door. Sam's hand was already there ready to push it open.

"Go." She whispered. The screech of the hinges and scrape of the fallen plank that had to be shoved out of the way announced again, in case anyone guarding them hadn't already heard, that they'd escaped. It didn't matter. Sam swung around to the left, Abby to the right. The long dark hallway was empty.

They both snapped their heads around when the chant suddenly surged up and hit them like a physical thing echoing menacingly down the stone hall. It jump-started an adrenalin rush that propelled them into the dark at a run.

#

Time passed. Midnight was bearing down. Dean knew he'd lost consciousness. The slug had crawled languorously up his torso leaving a blackened gouge in its wake to finally lay across his neck. He'd screamed his throat raw and died, or thought he must.

He'd woken abruptly to the demon hissing in his ear, "Submit to me of your own free will!"

Dean rasped out a short but caustic reply that he'd been rather proud of for the few seconds before the demon's sick parody of Abby's call to the four elements had continued.

The stone at Earth's corner had grown huge and crushed him till he'd heard the cracking pop of his ribs and hip bones. Air became so foul and toxic to breathe that he'd retched his guts out; maybe literally, he didn't remember. The demon inflicted the wounds then healed them all; destroying and repairing the precious vessel over and over.

Each time he passed out he escaped into a hallucination. His father walked up to the altar in his rough denim jacket and jeans, thick black hair startling, as if he'd just run his hands through it; a gesture he'd passed on to Sam.

He looked down with the gentlest look Dean had ever seen on his face and said, "Take a break son. You've done enough for now." And Dean, ever the obedient son, would let the terror fall away; let cramping muscles go loose… and rest. It wasn't much; barely enough, but it kept him sane.

His body felt raw; intensely sore deep into the bones, but he could move and breathe. He existed in a gray semiconscious world, clinging to the comfort of the hallucination as long as he could.

But the chant finally wrestled him away from his father. When he could drag his eyes open, he squinted against the yellow glare of the bonfire and saw that the black mist had subsided to reveal the coven kneeling around the slowly growing blaze. They swayed precariously as if each was buffeted by his own private wind storm. Heads thrown back, eyes wide and vacant, the chant erupted directly from their chests; words barely sculpted by cracked, peeling lips. The demon stood with them, shoulders hunched, arms spread like vultures wings, facing the burning cross.

The priests approached Dean again slowly, feet dragging like they were near exhaustion or death. They each carried a bowl and stirred the bloody contents with stiff bristled brushes.

Dean flinched away when they brought the dripping things to his skin and began to trace symbols across his chest. His skin crawled with each stroke. Down the midline of his chest, past his navel and up the sides of his throat they traced the spell. A shudder racked him from head to foot. This was the beacon, he groggily recalled, that would guide Vetis's soul to his new vessel. When the priests finished and his chest was covered in the bloody symbols, Dean had the strange, schizophrenic sensation of recoiling from his own body.

Vetis whirled on him. "Your defiance is useless!" he spat, breathing hard, sweat plastering his dull grey hair to his head. He looked more like a soggy, crumpled piece of paper than demon spawn from hell. "I can tear your soul from you whether you will or no!" Vetis shrieked, fist raised and shaking.

Dean whispered, "Liar." He managed a weak grin. "Killin' me…is killin' you, old man."

The demon snarled then spun back to the fire grumbling and whining. Dean closed his eyes, wishing for another hallucination.

Slowly the demon's whining subsided into muttering. A weak, but gleeful cackle grated on Dean's ears. Dean opened his eyes, strained to lift his head and blinked several times to force his adversary back into focus as the old goat approached. Vetis's lips were set in a thin, wrinkled line. He tottered to Dean's side and bent close.

"Let's change the game shall we? We'll play a better one," he sneered. "I'll bring your brother here." He gestured down Dean's bloodied body. "Let him see what has befallen his dear guardian. I'll ask _him_ if he will willingly submit; take your place."

"No!" Dean shouted, surprising them both at the volume he'd managed. He rasped, "Your father's plan. You can't…."

"Oh, I'll deal with my father's disappointment. Perhaps after all this, his wrath will be worth enduring to let you watch me take your brother and ride him. Could you bear it, I wonder? Could you bear to watch your angel-touched brother rape and murder knowing he'd sacrificed himself for you?"

Dean struggled uselessly against the ropes he'd already tried so many times to escape. The demon smiled a triumphant smile.

Dean stopped fighting. He was too tired; his mind brutalized too much to figure a way out of this. He had only one clear thought. He knew exactly what Sam would do, given that choice.

With eyes closed, Dean slowly, heavily nodded.

"No, you must say it. Say it!" the demon hissed, his clawed fingers twitching as if he'd snatch up the words the moment they left Dean's throat.

_God, I can't do it_. Tears, squeezed from the corners of his eyes, slid down the sides of his face. Dean swallowed hard and whispered, "Of my own free will."

Vetis threw back his head and howled.

Startled into action, the priests leapt. Crook Nose leaned down and Dean gasped as pain lanced up his arm again. The priest rose holding a large, clear crystal glazed with Dean's blood.

Vetis's voice crackled like the fire. "Lay the crystal in virgin snow well away from our influence." Crook Nose hurried into the dark. He returned a few heartbeats later to join the others in the circle.

Vetis turned to the fire and his voice shrieked, egging the chant to an excruciating crescendo. It thundered and echoed off the stone walls.

The demon raised his gnarled hands, gripped into tight fists above his head. As if he was cracking twin whips he thrust his fingers out, rigid and quaking then sketched a sequence of ritual gestures too quick for Dean's wearied eyes to catch.

In the sinking space between one heartbeat and the next a spot of darkness appeared in the center of the fire directly above the demon's bent body. It blinked once then expanded with explosive force into a cat's eye of black the size of a doorway. The coven wailed.

Dean felt dread grip him as a wave, invisible but palpable and far worse than the demon and his coven roared out of the gateway.

It hit Vetis first; his body went rigid, trembled violently then collapsed, lifeless, to the floor.

Before he could react, the invisible wave slammed into Dean. The instant of penetration was more brutal than all the previous violations; intolerable agony. In a vain attempt to throw off the assault his body arched up.

Lightening quick, the hell-force set his soul adrift.


	22. Chapter 22, Body and Soul

Chapter 22

Abby and Sam bolted down the hallway clambering over debris in the dark only to be frustrated as the passage hair-pinned back on itself. They pushed through drifts of snow where the roof was open to the sky. The chant taunted them, growing more urgent as their progress slowed.

Suddenly a long, grating howl rent the air. An answering chorus of wails erupted and echoed down the stone hallway.

"We've gotta move!" Sam dropped the water gun into his pocket and dragged large stones out of their way with his bare hands. Abby followed his lead, heart hammering in her throat.

"This is it!" Sam said and plunged through a gap in the debris.

Not ten feet ahead through a tangle of fallen beams Abby saw a doorway. Light flickered beneath it. She stepped back to take a vital centering breath and open her Sight.

The passage suddenly teemed with shadows. Abby stumbled back against the wall, arms raised to defend herself.

The genizaros. Decades of torment in the name of piety had come to this. They were trapped, unable to cross into heaven or hell.

Breathing hard, Abby stood and forced herself to walk among them, through them, toward the door. The lost souls flowed over her miming shrieks and wails as they walked.

Ahead of her, Sam's living aura blazed among the dead. She kept her eyes on him until he disappeared through the doorway.

"Sam wait!"

She followed Sam into a stone chamber. Footprints of all sizes littered the floor. The sharp, acrid smell of old urine and sweat hung beneath the smell of smoke and made her nostrils flare with disgust. Sam had already crossed to another low door. He pulled it open.

Brilliant light and a blast of heat rocked them both back. A bonfire crackled in the chamber beyond. Abby could feel the chant vibrating across her skin. Dark magic built in the air.

She ran to where Sam crouched. As their eyes adjusted to the glare they picked out objects in the flames. Furniture, statues, like leftovers from a church rummage sale set alight on an expanse of stone floor directly in front of them.

Sam jabbed a thumb at his chest then pointed around the left side of the fire. Abby nodded. Water guns braced ahead of them like Dean's Beretta, they struck out keeping low and hugging the wall that curved around the back side of the fire. They hadn't gone more than ten feet when their view cleared past the blaze.

Sam and Abby crouched down and froze.

The coven swayed like drunks. They knelt in an arc on both sides of Vetis and his priests. The faces Abby could see above dark, filthy robes were gaunt, but ruddy with the heat and slicked with sweat, their voices harsh and loud. Vetis's sleeves fluttered as he finished a violent gesture. Everyone's attention was riveted on the fire.

Abby gasped as a slit of night hanging just below the burning cross winked and grew. The Hell Gate. The genizaro spirits rushed toward it. The sickly auras of the coven bent toward it too like candle flames in a steady wind, maintaining it for whatever terror would come through.

Sam moved. Abby lunged for him frantically and caught him by the arm and waist. "Sam, NO! The gate's open. We can't go near…" Abby flinched when her eyes came up to the look of horror on Sam's face. She followed his terrified gaze to a stone altar. To Dean.

_Thank God Sam doesn't have the gift!_

Dean's aura sputtered and flared weakly from his head and limbs, but not a flicker escaped the roiling mass that crawled and chewed his torso. His soul was almost crowded out of his body already by the pollution she Saw on his chest.

The chant peaked into a riot of agonized screams.

Abby's head snapped back to the gate. A viscous, putrid bubble bulged out. Its membrane thinned then burst, violently expelled two huge tear drops. The first splattered against the demon, penetrating his body, filling it like molten lead in a mold, squeezing out his true form. Vetis's used up shell crumpled to the floor; both priests followed, deflating like leaky balloons.

Abby and Sam screamed Dean's name as the second teardrop struck him. Dean's body convulsed. For three fluttering heartbeats he held on to his soul then a bloody tear opened in his chest.

His soul, a silvery green ribbon, erupted from him, brilliantly pulsing with terror. It hovered above the wound, would have dipped back, but the bloody markings on his chest leapt at him like a hundred needle toothed serpents and drove him off.

Sam tore out of her grip. He hadn't seen what attacked his brother, but he'd seen the results; Dean in agony, his bother's lifeless body dropping to the cold stone. Abby leapt after him, dropped the gun, and clamped both hands onto Sam's arm with all her strength. She hauled him up and yelled in his face.

"He's not there, Sam! The ritual worked."

"No!" Sam choked out as he twisted to look back at his brother. Abby reached up and grabbed his chin, jerking it back around.

She brought her face almost nose to nose with his. "You've got to find the crystal, that's where Dean will be drawn. It'll be somewhere clean." She squeezed his shoulders hard and shoved him in the direction she'd seen Dean's soul moving. "Find it!"

Abby didn't wait to see if Sam obeyed her, but looked down, found her weapon and ran to the altar. She knew that a worse threat stalked Dean's empty shell.

Vetis in his wretched true form, not a soul like a living human, but an essence, an evil tobacco stain on the air, twisted closer to Dean's body. It seemed to sniff, pinpointing the noxious vapors of the markings.

Abby shook her bracelet out of her right sleeve as she stalked forward. She was relieved to see that the priests had stayed down with the demon's old shell.

The coven was still trapped in the chant holding the rift open. _Good, that's good, _Abby thought as she slowed her approach._ Hold it open just a little bit longer._

Abby gathered her power. She'd practiced drawing it up for the past six years; knew it as sunlight coalescing between her heart and womb. Its electric tingle stirred the hairs on her body. She opened her mind and gentle as a prayer sent a wave of energy along her arm. The coiled silver bracelet, her talisman, began to glow.

Abby beat Vetis to Dean's body. She flipped the water gun upside down and with her left thumb popped open the stopper in the butt. Keeping her eyes on the demon's approach, she dumped the pint of holy water onto Dean's chest. The bloody marks boiled. Reeking black steam billowed up making her eyes sting and her stomach twist. With the sleeve of her coat she spread the holy-water across his belly and up the sides of his neck smearing the steaming patterns into nothing but a pink, oily mess.

The demon, no more than two feet above her, jerked to a stop. It swayed back and forth blind and confused having lost the scent that beckoned it. Abby smiled thinly. Raising her arm, she sent a fingertip of sunlight to tap the vile thing. "Hey Vetis, come find _me_, you slimy son of a bitch."

The demon reared back startled. His essence boiled and churned then morphed into a shape part snake, part man. A slender gray line spun off the demon and into the Hell Gate. Vetis grew disturbingly solid looking fangs extended to strike.

Abby closed her raised fist and shouted. "Defendé!" Dome-shaped light spread out with its apex at her fist and encased her with Dean's body.

Vetis struck the glittering shield.

Abby felt the blow like an electric shock. The pain surprised her. She gritted her teeth into her best Xena smile. "That all you got?"

Dean wasn't dead. Dean was only lost. He needed to be found. Sam couldn't have turned away from his brother's body except that his gut told him Abby was right.

The firelight behind him barely penetrated into the cavernous chapel. Sam scanned the shadows frantically looking for a sparkle of crystal. _Somewhere clean? _What the hell did Abby mean?

The sound of her voice spun him around. She'd shouted and now stood beside Dean, fist raised in defiance. He couldn't see the threat. The demon and the priests were down; the coven barely conscious on their knees, still chanting. _What the hell's going on?_ He fought the urge to run back, to be at Dean's side and meet whatever invisible threat Abby Saw.

"No!" Sam turned back to the dark. _Dean's not there. He's here. I know it. _

A velvety white glow hovering about three feet above the floor at the far end of the chapel caught his attention. Sam jogged toward it.

High on the wall to the left of the wide chapel doors, a slotted window oozed moonlight. Realization that the storm was over barely registered in his mind. There was a large, stone bowl attached to the wall below the meager window, the holy water font.

_Somewhere clean._ A quiver of excitement started in his belly. The font had filled with snow blown in through the window above it. It heaped into a perfect glittering dome in the moonlight.

Sam drew close and leaned over it. "Oh God!"

He hadn't expected the blood; his brother's blood, staining the snow, drying on the clear geometric sides of the crystal. Sam swallowed hard.

With a growing sense of danger, as if Dean was about to step off the edge of a cliff, Sam snatched up the crystal and started back to the fire "Abby," he yelled, his voice tight and desperate. "I've got the crystal!"

Abby risked a glance back and her heart leapt into her throat. She Saw Dean's soul…Dean too close; too close to the crystal. "Crush it, Sam! Destroy the crystal!"

Bless him, he didn't hesitate. Abby heard the crystal shatter when it hit the stone, then the sound of Sam's boot grinding it into the floor.

She glanced down at Dean's body. He had to return to it soon or there'd be nothing to return to.

"Vetis Izar Garanth, fugeré in inferi! Go to hell!" Abby roared her command.

The demon mass shuddered, but didn't retreat. Abby felt a line of sweat trickle down her temple. Her talisman grew hotter and heavier on her wrist. _You're not gonna beat me this time. We're stronger than you, _she thought stubbornly, nostrils flaring as she drew herself up. "There's no fucking way you're touching Dean again!"

Abby dropped her chin, her fist and her shield.

She released every tense muscle and channeled every ounce of her power into her voice. She felt it lift and fill her chest; the sun, mother earth, rocky streams, summer winds, all the new-age, cliché images Dean would scoff at, coalesced in her voice…

The smoggy serpent surged forward.

"Vetis Izar Garanth," Abby raised her face slowly and gritted her teeth, "Fugeré in inferi! Go back to hell where you were spawned, you butt-ugly bastard!"

It wasn't the exorcism they'd planned, just her deepest heartfelt wish backed up with the lash of a magical command. Abby stumbled as the power flew from her lips. Her hands caught the rough edge of the altar beside Dean's body. She leaned hard against it to keep herself from tilting into the demon's approaching mass.

For a desperate moment she thought she'd failed. Vetis hung there, his serpent's body quivering taut as a bow string. The man's face stamped on the oily vapor straining to reach her.

A sob of frustration clogged her throat.

Then a change came over the demon's face. His eyes went wide with shock.

Genizaro spirits materialized all around the serpent vapor. The force of her spell, her voice, had wakened them from their nightmare limbo. Thicker and thicker they gathered. Vetis's form began to tremble and jerk. Spirit hands and spirit teeth gripped the black fog and dragged it toward the Hell Gate.

Abby Watched unable to breath as the demon smog slid agonizingly slowly back, tail first into the rift. Its jaws split and stretched in a silent, enraged scream. Vetis writhed and bucked fighting the genizaros. For a moment his progress slowed.

Abby clenched her fists preparing to hit him again.

Then, the gray line that coiled from Vetis into the Hell Gate stretched and thinned. A look of horror twisted his face and the smoggy eyes turned to look back into the rift. What he saw in that blackness made his struggle turn so violent that he lost any recognizable shape. The writhing smudge moved faster and faster, pressed by the genizaros and pulled inexorably by whatever or whoever had clamped a hold on him from the other side. Teeth bared, cheering on the unseen hand, Abby watched until finally, Vetis shrank to a fist-sized blob.

The last things to wink out at the rift were two terrified yellow eyes.

Abby expelled a breath and caught herself before her knees could give out.

She twisted around and yelled, "Sam, put the coven down!" She needn't have wasted her breath, he was already there.

Sam sprayed the potion into unseeing faces and one by one the coven members dropped. After the first three, the chant lost its power and the rift closed with a deep clanging boom.

Sam felt the difference like a change of air pressure that left his ears ringing. "Was that it? Is Vetis dead?"

Abby didn't answer, but bent immediately to Dean's body, tipped his head back, pinched her fingers around his nostrils and pressed her mouth over his. She blew in two breaths then almost lost her nerve.

This was too much. There was no magic here, only flesh and blood. The soft moist feel of his lips, the pressure it took to fill his lungs. It felt nothing like the plastic dummy she'd practiced on to get certified in CPR. This was Dean and his body was dead.

She took vicious hold of her feelings. _Remember what you were taught._ When a person's not breathing, they lose consciousness after three minutes; after six minutes the brain begins to die. How long had it been before she started? How long had it taken her and the genizaros to push Vetis back to hell?

She shook her head, no time to guess. With the heel of her hands, one on top of the other, she pressed sharply down on the center of Dean's chest massaging his heart into a clumsy but effective beat. _Two breaths, fifteen compressions, repeat till help arrives_.

Sam drew up beside her. "What can I do?"

She answered as she counted out compressions. "Go get your brother." _Five, one thousand, six, one thousand_. "Show him…the way back."

"How? Where is he?" Sam asked, his voice low and urgent.

_Eleven, one thousand_. "Near where you crushed the crystal." _Thirteen, one thousand... _"He won't want to…come near this altar." _Fifteen, one thousand…_

"Then how can I convince him?"

"Just do it, Sam! Open up. He'll come to you." Abby prayed that he would. The veil was thin. They couldn't let Dean cross over. Couldn't let him get waylaid by the other spirits wandering around this cursed place. Everything depended on Sam now; on the strength of their bond.

"He'll be looking for refuge…home." _Two breaths._ "Just open up."

Before Sam turned away, she grabbed his elbow. "Give me your gun." He handed it to her without looking back, his eyes already scanning the dark in the cavernous chapel. Abby popped open the plug and poured more holy-water over Dean's body, scrubbing away the last of the filth from his skin with her sleeve, then she bent to press her mouth to his.

Sam left Dean...to find Dean, again. He felt his shoulder muscles tightening. _Wrong approach. Open up._

Sam stopped, unclenched his fists and flexed his hands open at his sides. He rolled his shoulders and took a couple of slow, deep breaths. _Open up._

He stood a few feet from the crystal shards he'd ground into the stone floor. They reflected the bonfire, sparkling red, as if a pile of embers had been scattered there. Sam closed his eyes and lifted his chin. He imagined open windows, sunshine pouring in, open doors to mountain vistas, open books, open hearts, open minds. He let his feelings for Dean flood to the surface: love at the top, friendship reawakening, bone-deep trust, absolute faith. He was surprised at the fierce pride that surged up and let it shine brightest of all beside the other feelings that he imagined into beacons radiating from his heart. Then he called his brother.

"Dean, I'm here," Sam whispered to the dark.

As Abby had promised, Dean answered. Like a giant, rogue wave his brother waylaid him, engulfed him, and forced a groan from his throat. Sam was suddenly filled with everything Dean, distilled and intense.

Plus terror, gut wrenching, blind terror that drove him to his knees.

"Oh God." Sam clutched his arms around his ribs and folded Dean in. Struggling desperately not to let Dean's panic overwhelm him, he closed all the windows, slammed the doors in his mind, and willed his fast, shallow panting back into a steady rhythm. _We're safe. I've got you. We're safe. _He breathed the words in and out, over and over till gradually calm road up over the fear. Dean grew quiet and Sam's heart stopped slamming against his chest.

Abby watched Sam approach through eyes stinging with sweat. She'd discovered something they don't teach you in CPR class; the rescuer dropping from exhaustion before help arrives is a very real possibility.

Tears glistened on Sam's cheeks. His aura and Dean's were barely visible since Sam had burrowed them both in so deeply. He walked haltingly, stopping every few feet to keep Dean's spirit from bolting away from the altar.

"God, Abby, he's so scared," Sam whispered as he drew close. He swallowed hard. "What do we do now?"

"Show him he can go back. Convince him its safe."

"How?" Sam looked bleakly at Dean's bruised body.

"I don't know, Sam," Abby panted. "But do it now." She gave Dean's chest one last compression and backed away swiping sweat off her forehead with a holy water and blood covered sleeve.

Sam opened trembling hands and laid them gently on Dean's chest. "Abby, untie him. I don't want him to come back tied down." Abby knelt to the ropes.

Sam felt a moment of vertigo as he looked down. It was odd feeling Dean a part of him so intensely, and seeing Dean lying here, separate parts of something that should be whole. Dean's skin was bruised and blotchy. It looked raw like new skin over recently healed wounds. A red circle over his breast bone would bruise later where Abby had pumped on his heart.

As Sam's eyes traced the raw puckered skin on Dean's throat he noticed their mom's angel pendant, still on its leather string dropped beside Dean's shoulder. He picked it up and pressed it between his palm and his brother's chest. Sam closed his eyes and with a silent prayer, he willed Dean to understand that he had to live, he had to go back_._

_I can't hunt alone, Dean. Dad and I…Don't make me have to find him just to tell him I lost you. And my dreams, or visions, whatever they are. They're gonna get worse, man. I don't want to face that…I don't know if I can deal with that without…_

The pendant grew warm in his hand. With a rush that sucked the air out of his lungs and left him clinging to the altar, Dean was gone. Sam's eyes went to his brother's face and for a heartbeat that lasted weeks nothing happened.

Finally, Dean's head tilted back, his eyes flew open wide.

"Dean!" Sam pressed the angel harder against his brother's chest. "Breathe, man!" Dean's eyes locked on to Sam's and he heaved in one long, ragged breath, then another. On the next breath, he choked on a deep, painful sob. Sam slid his hand around the back of Dean's neck and pressed his forehead against his brother's. "I gotcha', I gotcha," he whispered roughly.

Abby bent close and they both gathered Dean up in a tangle of arms and held him cocooned between them as if by sheer physical pressure and force of will they could leach the pain and terror out of him. With Dean's face buried in Sam's shoulder and Abby's lips against Dean's ear murmuring, the three clung to each other.

They didn't let go of their desperate hold till they felt Dean's body relax and the convulsive sobs subside.

The first time Dean tried to speak his voice came out a reedy whistle. He cleared his throat and tried again.

"Guys," he breathed, "…get me off this rock before the roof catches fire."

Abby and Sam pulled away startled and looked up. Dean was right, the fire had danced its way up the cross and set the roof timbers, wet with melting snow, to steaming.


	23. Chapter 23, Choices

Chapter 23

Sam squinted at the steaming rafters. The wind gusting in through the roof pushed the flames and most of the smoke toward the back of the chapel. Dean had managed to sit up, but he wasn't going anywhere fast. Abby knelt in front him. His wrists were raw and already purpling. The long cuts still oozed blood into his palms.

Sam took off his borrowed parka and draped it gently over his brother's bare shoulders.

Dean winced. "What about you?" he croaked.

"I'm fine." Remnants of Abby's potion still burned in Sam's system. Between that and the fire at their backs, warmth was the least of his worries at the moment. Movement behind them had caught Sam's eye. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn the circle of bulging shapes on the floor were just discarded piles of filthy, black rags about to burn up with the other debris in the bonfire. But he did know better.

"What should we do with them?" Sam tipped his head toward the bodies.

"Dean and Liz were right," Abby said, her voice harder than Sam had ever heard it. "Those…idiots made their choices."

Sam looked back to the helpless, sleeping coven. He let out a frustrated growl. "I can't just leave them to burn alive. Dean, I know you've been to hell and back."

"That's exactly where I've been, Sam."

The rage in Dean's rough whisper shot an arrow of guilt through Sam. What could he say to that?

"Burning's what they deserve," Dean continued quietly, his eyes drilling into Sam's. "After tonight, there are no innocents back there."

"Maybe…probably." Sam dropped his chin.

"Sam." Abby touched his elbow. "I have a compromise." She looked to both brothers and got identically curt nods. "We take Dean somewhere safe, not far, just safer than right here under this section of the roof." She exhaled a resigned breath. "Then we'll wait for you to pull the coven further from the fire. That'll give the potion a chance to wear off before the roof caves in." Abby narrowed her eyes at him. "They'll have a chance to save themselves. If that's possible."

Sam knew she wasn't just talking about their lives. Maybe that's why he felt so compelled to do this. There was a lot more at stake.

The hard anger was still there in Dean's eyes, but he nodded. Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He reached out and ran his hand down the back of Dean's head to rest on his shoulder. "I know a clean place where you can wait."

They didn't make it all the way to the holy-water font. Dean was sore everywhere. It was dicey touching any part of his body to support him. They ended up about half way down the apse. As they settled him on a hard, wooden pew against the wall Sam reached for the edges of the big parka to tug them closer around his brother's torso.

Dean shrugged him off. "Stop fussin' and go. Do what you gotta do."

"I'll stay with him," Abby said; her face still wary and hard.

Sam hesitated.

"Go, you pansy do-gooder," Dean chided.

Sam gave his brother a lopsided grin, turned on his heel and ran back to the fire.

When he stepped up on the raised stone floor, the heat hit him like he'd opened an oven door. Stinging smoke started an annoying itch in his throat. He crouched down to avoid the worst of it.

Vetis's used up human body, lay with its feet smoldering on the fringe of the fire. He left it there. Sam kicked the closest puddle of black robes. A dusty black powder coated the tip of his boot. The priests had completely decomposed when bereft of the demon's touch. He left them too.

The next pile of filthy robes had a woman tangled in them. He gently turned her over and pressed his fingers against her throat. A weak but steady pulse registered on his fingertips. He laid her on her back and moved quickly to kneel beside the next one.

This one, a middle aged, black man looked… ordinary like somebody's barber or dentist. Sam tried to find a pulse under the folds of skin at the man's neck, felt nothing. _Too damned late!_

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbled and set the man's arm across his chest. He briefly considered dragging the body off a ways, but decided that the guy's family would just have to be okay with cremation.

Sam's eyes were streaming from the smoke when he found the last person on this side of the fire. It was a woman or a child; someone small. They'd fallen curled into a ball and he had to pull the body half into his lap to unfold it. Tear stains had left clean streaks in the grime on her cheeks. As he put his fingers to the side of her neck her eyelids fluttered and opened.

They were pale blue, glassy and filled with such profound sadness that Sam felt an answering lump rise in his throat. She starred up at him, silently pleading. Whether for rescue or salvation Sam didn't know, but every instinct made him yearn to ease this woman's grief.

"I'm going to help you," he whispered roughly.

Her face crumpled. Another tear streaked down her cheek, then she went limp again. Sam lifted a finger to trace the tear. _One innocent_, he thought. He lifted her as gently as he could and folded her over his shoulder. She weighed nothing at all. He knelt to grab a fistful of robes at the back of the other woman's neck. Carrying one and dragging the other, he made his way to the front corner of the chapel on the opposite side of the apse from Dean and Abby.

He laid the two women side by side then used one hand to shove himself off the wall and forced his feet into a jog. Sam felt his brother's eyes on his back. _Hurry_.

By the time Sam got back to the fire, the wind blowing in through the roof had changed. He flinched back as tongue of flame whipped toward his face. Melting snow fell like rain hissing and spattering, mixing steam with the smoke, super heating the air. Sam dropped to hands and knees and crawled up the step awkwardly, one arm across his mouth and nose, squinting against the heat. He stretched out his hand, grabbed a fist full of the first robes he came to and jerked. The robes didn't budge.

"Damn! Frikin'grizzly bear…" Sam grabbed the robes at the back of a very large man's head with both hands and throwing his weight into it, dragged him backwards several feet. He paused just long enough to check for a pulse then pulled the man along the path he'd worn through the debris with the others.

Sam dropped Big Guy none too gently beside the women then dropped himself to one knee coughing out curses and shivering as the sweat and steam that now soaked his shirts chilled in the icy cold away from the fire_._

"Sam?" Abby's voice.

He forced himself to his feet, not daring to stop for fear of losing what little momentum he had. "I'm okay. Just two more." He started for the fire then turned back. "Abby, one of them woke up for a second. Watch them. Don't let them…"

"They won't get near him."

He nodded and half ran half stumbled back for the last trip.

Sam went in low again, crawling up the single stone step. He groped blindly for the last two bodies, closed both fists around cloth and prayed it was two different people. When he pulled this time they practically flew away from the fire. They were quickly beyond the worst of the smoke and he could see two faces glowing pale and waxy in he firelight. They had features as alike as a matched set of hunting knives and just as sharp. High angular cheek bones, pointed, almost delicate chins and high arched eyebrows. Only the man's whiskered chin and the woman's long, pale hair told him he had one of each sex. He paused to check for life and the woman started mumbling gibberish.

Abby's head came up. She stopped tucking the parka around Dean.

"What?" Dean asked alerted by her sudden tension.

She'd gotten a whiff of something. "Black magic," she said under her breath turning toward Sam.

Sam frowned. The woman's voice set his teeth on edge. Suddenly she twisted in his grip. Her hand whipped up and before he could dodge, her nails ripped into his cheek. Sam let out a yelp, fell back onto his butt. The man was snarling gibberish now too. The pair rolled to all fours, their movements as uncannily matched as their faces and started toward him.

"Sam! Abby, go!" Dean rasped. She didn't move and he thought she hadn't heard his croaked out command. He was right.

Abby heard something else. In the corner, two of Sam's refugees were upright. They moved in the shadows like zombies, jerky, uncoordinated, but coming closer. Abby shook her bracelet out of her sleeve then realized it wouldn't help. Her shield worked against magical bad guys, not plain old human bastards. She stood and put herself between them and Dean.

"Abby, Sam's in trouble," Dean said urgently.

"So are we." She crouched into her fighting stance and moved out to meet them.

The evil twins moved toward Sam like stalking panthers. He scrabbled away as fast as he could, but heartfelt desire didn't fuel exhausted muscles. A loud "Keee-yah!" shrilled out of the dark behind him. Sam prayed it was Abby and not some crazed coven ninja. He let out his own yell when the panther twins dug their claws into his ankles.

They jerked him toward them and hissed a single word, "Graaavissss!"

Sam felt a million needles prick his skin in a roll of sensation that started at his feet and thundered up his body. His head flew back as gravity increased a hundred fold and pressed him flat against the cold stone. An anvil sat on his chest. He could barely lift the weight of it to suck in tiny gasps of smoky air.

The twins crawled up his body.

Abby went for the Big Guy first. She tried to deck him fast with a spear hand strike to the throat, but he surprised her. Despite starvation and torture the guy had moves. He blocked her strike with a sweep of one massive arm. She raised her knee to counter with side-kick to the gut. Dean's bench tipped over with a clatter behind her. "Keeee-yah!" she shouted desperately trying to squeeze some power out of her tired body. Her target crumpled then she turned in time to see Dean finish a sweeping kick along the floor that knocked the legs out from under the woman who'd been sneaking around her flank. The treacherous little twit landed on her back with a satisfying "woof".

Dean finished the move curled into a fetal position on his side; his face a mask of pain. Abby dropped down beside him.

"Sam, go help Sam," Dean managed through gritted teeth.

She would have, if the two in front of them weren't already on their feet.

The female twin brought her face to Sam's nose. Her fetid breath made his eyes water though he was only managing to pull in thimbles full of air. Stupid halitosis jibes skittered across his brain, but he didn't have Dean's gift for insults in tight situations.

The man's face rose up cheek-to-cheek with the reeking woman.

"Angel touched," he rasped with a twisted smile. He smacked his lips then stuck out his tongue and licked the blood oozing out of the scratches on Sam's cheek with one long, quivering lap. Sam flinched. It was the biggest movement he could manage.

Two inches from his nose the twins kissed like they were sharing a meal; her tongue eagerly lapping up Sam's blood smeared on her twin's lips and chin. They were both pressed so hard against his sides that Sam felt the shivers of pleasure that ran simultaneously down their bodies.

As one, they disappeared from his line of sight then he felt their hands latch onto his ankles again and whatever they'd done to gravity snapped back to normal. He could move, but as they dragged him toward the raging fire, he was so starved for oxygen all he could do was suck in smoke-clogged air that forced him into a helpless fit of coughing.

His captors grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet when they reached the fire. Sam's eyes went wide when he realized their intention. He lunged back, planted one boot on the edge of the step, the other on the stone beneath it. Steely fingers dug into his arms. The twins seemed oblivious to their smoldering robes they were so intent on pitching him into the blaze.

Abby crouched in front of Dean preparing to body slam the coven zombies. She frowned as a sound that had been on the fringe of her awareness for a while distracted her. She flicked a glance to the front of the church. A rumble was building outside to a skull rattling roar. She forced her mind away from it as the two in front of her lurched forward.

She sprang. A boom rang out as if she'd shot herself from a cannon.

Abby drove her right shoulder into Big Guy's gut and locked her other arm around the woman's waist. They all went down in a tangle of flailing arms and legs. Long unwashed bodies, furry tongued mouths and fear-induced loss of bodily fluids, resulted in a caustic cloud of deadly invisible gas. Abby gagged, but fought down vomiting, refusing to give them any more ammunition. Oddly, their extremely malodorous state reminded her that these were human beings, just as Sam had been trying to tell them. They truly reeked of many things, but brimstone wasn't one of them. They deserved her pity.

But not at the moment.

At the moment, she felt somebody's hand at the scruff of her neck. That somebody lifted her off the reeking pile of flailing bodies. She drew back a fist, twisted around and found herself looking into Daryl's face.

Sam thought he heard a cannon go off, but was too busy trying not to be launched into the inferno to process that bizarre piece of information.

His current battle had become a straight forward tug-of-war. He didn't have the juice left to twist or kick his way free. Every muscle in his body burned with the sustained effort of just staying at the edge of the step. Spasms started in his thighs joining the watery sensation in his knees. He only hoped that the smoldering wack-jobs trying to kill him would catch fire before his legs gave out.

Then they started gibbering in unison again.

He was dead meat, well-done dead meat, if they hit him with another spell. Sam pulled back with all he had left.

Two shots cracked above the fire's roar.

The twins jerked backward. Their shocked faces contorted with rage. Suddenly Sam's arms were free. He and the twins fell in opposite directions. Sam watched them still clawing the air reaching for him till they disappeared into a brilliant shower of sparks.

His shoulders hit the stone floor with a thud, the back of his head with a crack. His vision filled with stars then faded to black.

AN: Just realized that line is a little poem. Didn't do it on purpose, I promise. Revised 08.14.12 :p


	24. Chapter 24, The Cavalry

Chapter 26

Sam woke to a lovers' quarrel.

"Dean, don't touch him." That was Abby, Sam didn't bother opening his eyes. Exhaustion seemed to have brought out the drill sergeant in her from their first conversation about a decade ago.

"Why the hell not?" Dean; it hurt to hear the reedy weakness in his voice, but at least he had enough spunk to be ticked off.

"You can't control the connection yet. You need the energy to heal yourself."

"What are you talking about?"

_Ah,_ Sam thought hazily. _The big D, denial, rears its ugly head again._

"He's gonna be fine. Look at him, he's grinning." Abby again. _Am I grinning?_

"Sam? Sam."

Slitting his eyes open was a big mistake. Bright light shot a nail through his skull. He flinched away from it with a groan.

"Get the light out of his eyes, Henry!"

"Oh, sorry."

"Sammy?"

"Damn it, Dean." Sam croaked through vocal cords that felt like they'd been slow-smoked on a grill. "Don't call me Sammy." He opened his eyes cautiously again this time to a ring of concerned faces on a backdrop of clear, starry sky. Sam turned his head gingerly, heard the scrunch of snow under his aching skull. Dean lay next to him, propped up on an elbow. His wrists were wrapped in clean white gauze. He looked pale and almost as hollow eyed as the coven, but alive and giving Sam that half ticked, half worried, _Don't-scare-the-crap-out-of-me_ look he knew so well. Their eyes met and an embarrassing lump rose in Sam's throat_._

It was like looking into a mirror seeing the fierce relief in his brother's eyes. Weird way to describe that emotion, but that's the way it felt, always felt, when they found each other alive and whole after a job. Sam's lips twisted into a thin crooked line. Dean swallowed hard, then one side of his mouth quirked up. He lay back into Abby's waiting lap and said, "You'll always be little Sammy to me, bro."

Sam huffed a breath past the lump. "Shut up." His chuckle turned into a coughing fit that speared his ribs, but he didn't care, well not much. _It's over. God, it's really over._

Henry, one of the faces Sam hadn't recognized in those first bleary-eyed moments, turned out to be Abby's partner from the park ranger station and a handy man to have around. He was a ranger and a paramedic. He pulled a small portable oxygen tank out of his bag and strapped a mask over Sam's nose and mouth. Sam sat up with the help of Dean and Abby's hands at his back and concentrated on smoothing out his spastic breaths. _Clean air in, bad air out, clean air in, bad air out._ Sam finally managed to wave a finger of thanks to Henry.

"You bet. Glad to help." Henry nodded then turned his attention to Dean.

Sam looked around. The three of them lay on the rim of the hollow on a bed of snow, sandwiched between a heavy canvas pad and a rainbow of quilts, courtesy of Liz, Sam suspected. They were close enough to the spectacularly burning ruins to feel the warmth, but far enough away to avoid most of the falling cinders that sizzled little craters into the snow.

Sam turned back, moving stiffly, when he heard a curse from Dean. It was Henry who'd bandaged Dean's wrists. At the moment the ranger was muttering worriedly as he put away the saline bag and IV kit that Dean had just refused in his usual polite manner.

"You guys really ought to get to the hospital now," Henry said. "You're both gonna need stitches, tetanus shots, antibiotics…"

"We're not goin' anywhere." Dean shot a glance behind them up the hill and Sam forced his stiff body around a little more to see what had brought the scowl to his brother's face.

It wasn't a what, but a who. In the flickering fire light Sam recognized Dr. Q. sitting several feet away on another canvas pad. Next to her, wrapped in one those foil rescue blankets was the sad-eyed woman.

The younger woman slumped listlessly, hands clasped loosely in her lap, eyes blank and staring. A hollow space opened up in Sam's chest at the sight of her. One innocent, he was sure of it. He pulled his eyes away from the woman he'd saved and caught Dr. Q's. _This one's different,_ he tried to tell her with his look. _This one deserves our help_. Whatever Dr. Q saw in Sam's eyes brought a small smile to her lips. She gave Sam the barest nod. Her arm went around the woman's shoulders, slowly, gently, Dr. Q bent down to her. She spoke too softly for Sam to hear, but after a moment the woman's grief stricken eyes widened, her lips parted in a little 'oh' then she covered her face in her hands and began to sob. Sam turned away fighting the urge to cough again as his breath hitched in his throat.

"What happened to the others?" Sam asked when he found his voice. "Five were still alive when I…" His train of thought faltered as the twins' slow motion fall into the flames replayed in his mind. "Who fired the shots?"

"That was me," a rumbling voice answered. Sam had noticed the stranger earlier. How could he not? The linebacker knelt on the downhill side of the group with his back to them scanning the hollow and the burning ruins. Sam felt a moment of vertigo as a flash of memory strobed across his mind; hanging up-side-down, his body folded over a large dark shoulder, pain almost prodding him awake like an annoying alarm clock's beep with every step his rescuer took. So those giant hands hadn't belonged to the demon possessed, hulked-out Dean that his bruised brain had conjured up. That was a relief. He cast a puzzled look to Abby.

"That's Daryl. He's a homicide detective." Sam's face must have reflected the twinge in his belly that the word "detective" always produced because Abby hurried to add, "… and Liz's husband."

Daryl turned around and offered Sam his plate-sized hand for a quick but firm clasp.

"Thanks," Sam managed. He couldn't stop a bemused blink when an image of this man and Liz popped into his head. He glanced over to Dean. His brother gave him a minute shrug as if to say, _Abby runs with an interesting crowd, dude._

Daryl nodded. "Just doin' my job." A dimple appeared in the ebony cheek when he grinned like he'd followed Sam and Dean's flitting thoughts.

"What about the others?" Sam asked again.

Abby said, "We all got distracted when Daryl had to…attend to the ones trying to bar-b-q you." She tipped her head up the hill toward Dr. Q and the woman. "The little one stuck around, but your other refugees slithered away from us. Big Guy gave Henry that shiner."

Henry looked just a little proud as he brought his fingers up to gingerly explore the swelling around his right eye. He shrugged humbly, "I tried to stop them."

"No worries," Daryl said. "In a few minutes, whatever hole they've bolted into will turn into an oven and they'll have to bug out. The sun's gonna be up soon too. We'll see them or their tracks in the snow. They're not gonna get far." This last Daryl directed at Dean with a level look that made his statement a promise.

The cavalry, Daryl, Henry and Dr. Q, had arrived shortly after the storm abated in two huge snowcats, now parked on the ridge behind them. Sam's eye followed the wide swath they'd plowed in the snow on the hillside that led right up to the front of the chapel. Staring at the tracks, his brows rose as he figured out one of the evening's more puzzling events. The cannon he'd heard had been the kiss of a five foot tall tank tread on the front doors.

"Officer McReynolds!" The urgency in Dr. Q's voice got everyone's attention. "I think our fugitives are attempting their escape."

Everyone else spotted them in the next moment. Two figures emerged from around the burning building floundering up the far side of the hollow. The hillside was rapidly becoming treacherously slick with mud and half melted snow. Their voluminous black robes made them look like grounded bats flapping and clawing frantically. Sam, Dean and Abby all moved as if to stand and give pursuit.

"Stay down, all three of you." Daryl commanded with a stern look. "Henry, you're with me."

Henry alerted like an eager hunting dog and sprang to his feet. The cop and his sidekick kept to the rim of the hollow on a path to intercept the giant bats. When they made it to a position directly above them, Daryl didn't draw his weapon. He and Henry just stood looking down patiently while the bats, oblivious to their pursuers' presence, struggled up to meet them. Finally, their heads jerked up. Sam saw Big Guy swing one hand back to throw a punch. Daryl just stretched out the long arm of the law and gave the former coven member a shove. Big Guy's arms pin-wheeled as he tumbled backward and landed flat on top of his cohort. Their bodies punched a giant bat shaped hole in the crust of snow and disappeared beneath it.

Reinforcements began to arrive with the light. Three officers on snow mobiles cruised up. Sam didn't envy them the task of figuring out how to safely transport the prisoners out of this wilderness. He briefly considered suggesting that at least two of them be locked into the utility boxes behind the snow cat cabs.

The fire, the rangers would just watch and allow to burn out. With the clearing around it and the heavy layer of snow protecting the forest there was little danger of anything else burning.

Henry split off from the group of rangers and trotted up to the trio, "Officer McReynolds wants you guys out of here ASAP." He looked worriedly at Dean. "Our snowcats aren't built for comfort. There'll be a lot of rattling around. I'll make the ride as smooth as I can."

"Just make it fast." Dean told him.

A collective sigh of relief slipped out of all four of them half an hour later when they made it back to the road. They unpacked and repacked Dean into Daryl's black SUV still parked where they'd left it last night. It was a measure of how exhausted Dean was that he bore all the attention and fussing without grumbling. He settled gingerly against the corner of the back seat wrapped to the chin in Liz's quilts. Sam clicked the seatbelt across Dean's lap then sat beside him. Abby took shotgun.

"Where to?" Henry asked as he slid into the driver's seat.

Abby twisted around to face the boys. Dean had his eyes closed, head leaning against the window. He'd grown so pale on the ride out of the back country that she feared he was going into shock. "You both need go to the hospital." Abby said decisively.

Sam's head snapped up. "No. He just needs rest." He saw astonishment on Abby's face. "You don't know what we have to go through to check into a hospital."

"What are you talking about? You walk in, tell them your names and hand over your insurance cards."

"Right. Names and insurance cards." Sam shook his head, clamping his jaws down on things he couldn't explain with Henry in the car. "It's not that simple for us." Sam's hand drifted toward his brother, but stopped short of touching Dean's still form. "I can take care of him."

"Sam, he lost a lot of blood. You have a concussion…"

"We've dealt with worse than this!"

"Worse than dying?! Worse than freezing your a…"

"Shut up." Dean spoke barely above a whisper. He didn't even bother to open his eyes, but they both obeyed instantly. "I love you both. Just take me home."

For a moment there was stunned silence. Those were two four-letter words Sam had _not_ expected to hear pass his brother's lips.

Abby stared at Dean; her eyes wide. Finally she bit her lower lip, sniffed and turned back around in her seat. "I guess I can call Dr. Hanson," Sam heard her say, her voice a little squeaky. "If I can borrow your cell phone when we get within signal range, Henry,"

"Oh sure." Henry dug the cell out of his pocket and passed it over to her.

Abby covered another loud sniff with the click of her seatbelt. "Doc will probably make a house call under the circumstances."

Sam couldn't see her face, but he could hear the smile in Abby's voice with her next words and couldn't stop a bemused grin of his own.

"Please take us home, Henry."

AN: Still to come: demon-tainted Dean, a witch doctor, PTSD, another splash or two of romance, talisman training and parting ways…but who's leaving whom? ;D


	25. Chapter 25, Demon Tainted

Chapter 27

Dean's jaws ached from clenching his teeth so hard for so long. His dread grew when the SUV pulled smoothly into the road and the heat kicked on warming his feet. While Abby and Sam dozed, Dean fought sleep almost as hard as he'd fought Vetis.

The demon greeted him, replaying vivid scenes from last night across the movie screen of his eyelids every time they drooped closed. As bizarre as the whole experience had been, it was even worse in these twisted flashbacks. His father and Vetis changed places as torturer, his father speaking with the demon's voice ordering him to give up his soul. Pain as real as if it were happening all over again flared at his chest and hips. He drowned, and choked and burned over and over in jumbled, fast forward nightmares.

Each time a wave of panic woke him, several seconds would pass before his mind could place him in the car again. _We're safe, we're safe, we're safe._ His silent mantra would slow his heart, the film of sweat on his forehead would dry, then exhaustion would pull him into the nightmare again. After ten times through this cycle Dean decided he wouldn't let his eyes close till he crossed Abby's threshold. He locked his gaze to the east and watched the sun rise as if his life depended on it.

Reaching Abby's house became the Holy Grail and Christmas morning all rolled into one. Dean clung desperately to its promise of sanctuary from the nightmares that gibbered and shrieked in his head.

He just had to make it home then he could sleep.

By the time they pulled up to the curb across from Abby's, Dean was clinging to control by his fingernails. He reached for the door, winced and let out a frustrated growl.

"I got it," Sam said quietly and reached across to push it open.

Dean swung his legs out. Stubbornness got him to his feet; that and a subtle push at the small of his back.

Sam and Abby said goodbye to Henry with many heartfelt thanks. Dean felt only the tiniest tug of guilt at not expressing his gratitude and started limping across the street before Henry drove off.

"Y'all get in here before me and the baby freeze to death."

Dean looked up from his determined trudge. The new snow draped the garden like a clean white sheet. Liz stood at Abby's gate wrapped in a purple shawl. She was a tie-dye rainbow on a white t-shirt world and he sucked in a breath at the surge of hope that got his feet moving faster. Faster was a relative term. All three of them had stiffened up on the ride back and picked their way through the new snow gingerly. Liz clucked and fussed at them all the way, commenting on everything from the state of their hair to the injustice of the weather. Dean found her chatter a welcome distraction from the renewing clamor of Vetis's voice in his skull and looked at her reproachfully when they approached the curb and she suddenly grew quiet.

Liz opened the gate wide and Abby slipped in ahead of the two brothers.

Dean stepped into Abby's garden eagerly.

A ripping sensation like duct tape pulled off his insides started in his gut and tore up behind his eyeballs. "Oh God, Sam," Dean forced the words through clenched teeth. Sweat broke out all over his body and set him shivering. Vetis's voice raged.

Sam caught Dean as his knees gave out.

"Sam, go back!" Abby ordered. "Take him out of the garden."

"What's happening?" Sam barked as he grabbed Dean around the middle and half dragged him back to the curb. Abby followed them out and Liz worriedly closed the gate.

"It's the wards," Abby said curtly.

"Dang it," Liz breathed. "Abby, can you take them down?"

"No, that's not possible." She turned to Dean. "He's in your head, isn't he?"

The severity in Abby's voice about did Dean in. He lifted his head and managed a nod. Desperation clogged his throat. "Abby, you're house isn't gonna let me in is it?" He felt Sam's arm tighten around him.

"No, Dean." Abby cupped his tormented face in both hands and brought her eyes level with his. "That's not it at all. It won't let Vetis in."

Dean's breath caught; he frowned at her, confused.

"You're tainted. This happened to me too, but much, much less… intensely." She pressed her lips into a thin line. "I'm so sorry you have to go through this one last trial. The wards won't allow any trace of the demonic to pass. They're going to clean it out of you."

"Feels like they're using a rusty wire brush."

"Abby, can't you do something?" Sam asked tightly.

Her hands slid from Dean's cheeks to rest on his shoulders. "No. It's the way the wards work. They're old and very powerful. Dean, I know it's uncomfortable."

He expelled a choked breath that might have been a laugh.

She let her hands slide on down and took him by the elbows. Dean shifted his weight off of Sam and stood again. "Don't fight them. The wards aren't harming you. They're just cleaning the wounds Vetis left. Unfortunately, they weren't designed to be gentle about it."

Dean searched her face looking for a loophole; some way around this. He saw none; just resolve and sympathy.

One more trial. Dean looked over at Liz; her expression a twin to Abby's; felt the solid warmth of Sam at his back. One more.

Dean set his teeth and walked back through the gate.

Knowing what to expect didn't make it any easier. But he had Abby and Sam at his elbows, Liz out front walking backwards, coaxing him on. Each of Abby's wards had its own style of taint removal. The ripping sensation he'd felt the first time gave way to a burning fever that flashed from his chest out to the tips of his fingers and toes and turned his skin bright red. The fever broke into a drenching sweat which segued into something like soul cramps that dropped him to the ground for several agonizing seconds of shuddering spasms. When the cramps stopped, Dean was left with the weird, but comforting feeling that his soul had snapped back into its proper shape again. The last thing that struck him as he stepped onto Abby's porch was an explosive, cleansing sneeze that pushed Liz against the front door and left him bent over, face down into her belly.

Dean pulled back a few inches and whispered to the volley ball, "Sorry, kid." Then, "Sam, pull me up."

They all responded. Six hands gently pulled and pushed him upright. Three worried faces frowned at him as his head came up. Dean checked himself over. Other than soreness in every muscle and the now familiar throbbing in both wrists, he felt…fantastically clean, at least on the inside. And he was alone in his head.

Dean smiled tiredly at his nursemaids. "It's done. I'm ok."

Sam grinned. Abby and Liz gave each other a high five.

Inside, stereo stomachs growled rudely on either side of Dean as Abby and Sam flopped down after gently settling him into the green leather couch. The smell of something edible wafting through the open door had grabbed Sam and Abby like a tractor beam and pulled them inside with Dean carried along in their wake. A fire crackled in the hearth. Daryl's parka was whisked off Dean's shoulders and replaced by several soft knitted afghans that he hoped were washable since he felt at least an inch of grime and worse, coated him.

"Ahhh Liz, what are you cooking?" Sam asked and surreptitiously wiped his chin.

"Chicken soup, with a whole lot of veggies, and corn bread. Good for what ails ya."

"I'm starving!" Abby said sounding surprised.

"Oh yeah," Sam agreed.

"Feed these two, please." Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam as his brother's stomach erupted again.

"What about you, Dean?" Liz asked, already headed into the kitchen.

"No thanks, Liz. Not yet." He didn't think he could hold a spoon, let alone a bowl of soup and didn't relish the idea of being fed like an infant. What he really wanted was a shower, but just the thought of standing up long enough to scrub away the layers of crusty grime clinging to his skin had him biting back a frustrated moan.

There was a knock at the door. Liz put steaming mugs of chicken soup into Abby and Sam's hands then pressed Abby down when she started to rise from her seat. "It's gotta be Doc. I'll get it."

Before Liz got to the door a man poked his head in. "Knock, knock."

"Doc, come on in. Your patients are waitin' for you."

Dr. Hanson was much younger than Dean would have expected of someone still willing to make house calls. He looked about their dad's age. His dark, neatly trimmed hair was salted with grey. Dressed in khaki cargo pants, a brown sweater vest and bright white oxford button-down shirt, he reminded Dean of Atticus Finch or maybe Gregory P; Dr. Hanson had the same quietly intense bearing. His smile as he came around the couch and set an honest-to-God, old fashioned leather doctor's bag down on the coffee table, was warm and genuine.

"Three patients I see," he said sweeping a level gaze over each of them. He offered Sam his hand as he introduced himself. "I'm Jack Hanson, everybody calls me Doc around here."

"Sam Winchester. Thanks for coming so quickly Doc."

At the mention of their last name the doctor's eyes widened just a bit. Dean managed to suppress a little sigh. After a week in Colorado Springs he was coming to expect that reaction from everyone they met.

"Not a problem," Doc said pleasantly, without acknowledging whether or not he knew their father. "I've been here a few times before." He quirked a smile down at Abby.

When Dr. Hanson turned to him, the man's bright, penetrating eyes made Dean feel like an x-ray machine wouldn't be necessary for this exam.

"And you must be Dean, and my first patient. We can forgo the handshake."

"I'd appreciate that. Thanks for comin'."

Doc only nodded this time. He opened his satchel and began laying out gauze, tape, scissors, tubes and vials on the coffee table as if he'd done it there a hundred times.

"You'll just have two patients, Doc," Abby said as the man worked. "I'm all right. Just the usual scratches and bruises."

"I'm all right too," Sam added and made to stand and move off the couch.

"Sam," Dean growled and laid the back of one bandaged wrist on his brother's knee.

Sam sat back down reluctantly, his hand straying to the three parallel scratches on his cheek. He gave his brother a glare. "Dean's first."

"Oh yes, I'd say so," Doc agreed. Pushing the coffee table full of supplies back a bit, Doc knelt in front of Dean, rolled up his sleeves and donned latex gloves. "You look like you had the closest encounter with the demon."

Dean raised an eyebrow at Abby. She smiled and shrugged. He should have expected it. Of course Doc was in the loop. "Yeah, you could say that."

Dean braced himself as the doctor unwrapped his wrists, but Doc's hands were deft and gentle. In less than ten minutes he had the long, shallow wounds cleaned and re-bandaged with a minimum of hisses sucked in through Dean's teeth.

"Change the dressing twice a day and keep 'em dry. Both wrists are sprained. Use 'em as little as possible for the next couple days and watch for swelling." Doc paused, propped his hands on his knees and fixed everyone with a direct Atticus Finch look. "Now, I'd like the three of you to busy yourselves in the kitchen. Dean and I are going to have a private conversation."

Eyebrows rose all around. Sam looked as if he might rebel. Abby stood and walked around to the back of the couch then reached behind Dean to tug Sam, who hadn't yet moved, up by his collar. "Sure, we'll make some tea," she said giving Sam a look.

Sam shook off the look. "Dean?" His brother's gaze was fixed on the doctor. Sam watched Dean's face intently as it changed from a narrow eye'd study of the man in front of him to resignation.

"Go Sam."

Sam frowned, then squared his shoulders and turned to the doctor with a look of his own. It was part warning, part plea; _No more pain. Not even a little bit. _Sam gave his brother's shoulder a light squeeze and said quietly, "Fine. I'll be right in the kitchen."

"Good." Doc turned to Dean as the others disappeared through the kitchen door, Liz towing both Sam and Abby along by the elbows. "Lets have a look at your torso, son." Dean nodded his permission and Doc opened the edges of the blankets. Dean tucked his chin to take a look. He didn't look nearly as bad as he felt. That was some comfort. The palm-sized red mark on his breast bone had darkened. His skin looked mottled and raw.

Doc's deft, probing touches were feather light, but Dean's whole body was tender as hell. Every tiny moan that escaped his lips brought Doc's eyes to Dean's face to linger there till Dean was ready for him to continue. Finally finished, Doc wrapped the blankets back around him. "Nothing's broken, not anymore anyway."

Dean felt his jaw clench. _Not anymore anyway_. A little surge of adrenalin rushed his system at the doctor's words. He shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Doc was sitting on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced, x-ray eyes turned up full blast. "Dean I need to know the particulars about the ritual."

Dean shifted, suddenly uncomfortable on the big cozy couch.

"It's not idle curiosity. The more I know about all that transpired, the better I'll treat your injuries both physical and psychic."

"Psychic? You're not a regular doctor are you?"

Doc gave him a little smile. "Not _just_ a regular doctor, no."

"Course not. You're a friend of Abby's. And your treatment involves magic?" Dean asked, trying not to sound as pessimistic about that as he felt. He'd had enough magic practiced on him in the last twelve hours to last a life time.

Doc nodded. "Some. More basic herb lore, really. You'd recover without it, of course, but the process would be longer and more difficult. It's up to you."

Dean frowned. He wanted this behind him, but his heart was already thudding against his chest just skittering around the edges of his memories from last night. He rolled his shoulders a bit under the blanket, sat up a little straighter and asked, "What do you need to know?"

Doc got out a pad and pencil. "Tell me everything you remember from the first physical contact."

So Dean began with the lights going out in the cell. Doc's questions were concise, his voice detached, his interest clinical; just the attitude Dean needed to get through the telling without reliving every detail. The few places where Dean couldn't stay back from it, Doc waited patiently then prompted him to go on without a drop of sympathy or pity in his voice. He took copious notes.

When Doc had asked all of his questions and they both fell silent, Dean let out a shaky sigh. He felt lighter as if he'd handed over a burden to someone more capable than him of handling it. Doc sat quietly scratching away at his pad.

No more than thirty seconds of silence passed before the three banished to the kitchen returned cautiously to the living room. Dean knew from the stricken looks on their faces that they'd heard every word of his and Doc's "private conversation". _Ah hell! _He shrugged the afghans closer and forced his stiffening body straighter on the couch.

Doc looked up from his notes. He tore off several pieces of paper from what looked like an ordinary prescription pad and handed them to Abby. "Dean, if you don't mind, I'll give Abby and Liz my recommendations for your treatment. They can put together everything you'll need." When Dean nodded Doc continued.

"Abby, these are prescriptions for antibiotics and pain medication. Don't fill them unless the teas don't seem to be handling the pain or Dean develops a fever or redness around the cuts." He tore off another sheet from a larger pad. "This is the regimen I'd like Dean to follow over the next week."

Liz stepped up to read over Abby's shoulder. "I'll get the bath ready right now," she said with enthusiasm.

Alarmed, Dean put up a hand to stop her. "Now wait just a minute Liz, I can take my own damned bath."

"I'm just gettin' it ready for you, Dean. Doc's got some particular ingredients for the water that's all. _I_ won't be the one in there with you."

Dean frowned. _What the hell…?_

"Dean, stay in the bath as long as you can stay awake." Doc's voice distracted him.

"Ok, sure." Dean said turning back to Doc, still frowning uncertainly. Staying awake wouldn't be the problem. The ride back from the mountains was still too vivid. The thought of sleep chilled him.

"When you sleep…" Doc said with emphasis on the _when_ as if he'd read Dean's mind. "…don't sleep alone." Doc looked up at Abby and Sam. "There will be nightmares. Don't try to stop them; let him wake naturally, but bring him back to the here and now as quickly as possible."

"Wait," Sam protested. "Nightmares won't be a problem, not here."

"Sam, _your_ nightmares came from Vetis. The house and the circle only stop intrusions from _outside_," Abby explained.

Doc brows rose with interest. He studied Sam for a moment before turning back to Dean. "You'll be supplying your own bad dreams, Dean."

"Great."

The doctor smiled reassuringly at the grim look on Dean's face. "They'll fade quickly though, in Abby's house." He turned to Sam. "Sam, why don't you help your brother get ready then you're my next patient."

Dean was glad those penetrating eyes were off of him. It was nice to see Sam squirm just a little under their gaze.

_A bath, what a concept,_ Dean thought. He hadn't taken a real sit-down bath in years. Gallons and gallons of hot water soaking off the crud and he wouldn't have to stand up to do it. _Sweet. _He'd just have to make sure Liz wasn't within scrubbing distance.

AN: Does it count as a cliffie when it looks like in the next chapter you may get Dean into a great big ole bath tub? Hmmmm... ;)


	26. Chapter 26, Soap and Water

Chapter 26

Liz came back into the living room drying her hands on a soft, yellow towel. "All ready, Doc. Smells like a little bit of heaven in there. Abby, you go take a shower upstairs. I'll take over down here." Liz dropped the towel on the back of the couch then flounced over to take Abby's place at Dean's left elbow.

Dean scowled. Pregnant women shouldn't flounce. The warm glow he'd been feeling at the thought of taking a real bath faded just a little.

Dean groaned as Liz and Sam hauled him upright. "Slow, slow down. Liz, I said I'd take my own bath. Sam can nursemaid me into it."

Liz halted their slow progress and set a hand on her hip. "Dean, look at your brother."

He did and caught Sam mid-wince with a hand pressed against his ribs. Sam sheepishly dropped his arm and stood up straighter; winced again.

"Just pullin' you up off the furniture put a strain on him. Now stop being so prickly and lean on me just to the bedroom door then I'll happily leave you to Sam."

Liz kept her word, supporting him down a short hallway past the stairs to the door of Abby's room. "Abby has the most beautiful bath tub and it's right next to that gorgeous bed of hers. When you get all dozey and relaxed you just dry off and take a few steps and fall straight into bed."

She quickly crossed Abby's room to grab a pale pink bathrobe from a peg on the far wall. As she came back she stopped in front of Dean and laid a soft hand against his jaw. Liz rose up on tip-toes and kissed his cheek, her hard round belly pressing briefly against his waist. "You're gonna be fine." She turned smiling to Sam. "You too, little brother." Then she squeezed between them and left.

The boys stood together in the doorway, reluctant to cross the threshold. This was definitely a grown woman's room not the sweet sixteen shrine upstairs in the loft. A big, four poster bed stood against the wall to their right. Not one of those ornate monstrosities, but an achingly comfortable looking bed with four simple tapered posts of rich dark wood.

Every horizontal surface, the carved wood dresser, bedside tables, and bookshelves, held framed photographs. It was a revelation to Dean to look around at them and realize that after being here only a few days he recognized most of the faces.

"There's Dad again," Dean said and nodded toward a photo of their dad, his usual glower softened by upturned lips, standing shoulder to shoulder with a silver haired man who had to be Abby's grandfather.

Sam glanced over, frowned, but kept them moving toward the big bed.

A huge claw footed tub dominated the other side of the room. It seemed to float on a pool of blue tiles set into the wood floor in front of a large south facing window. The outermost ring of tiles each held a different rune. Dean could only guess at their witchy significance. Copper pipes came straight up out of the floor so the big old fashioned faucet handles were in the middle of one long side of the porcelain tub.

Dean noted that he'd have to choose his view. Sit in the tub on one end and look out the big window to the meadow and snow-covered woods of Abby's property, or sit on the other and watch the fire burn merrily in a small wood stove set on a tile hearth in the room's other corner. Decisions, decisions.

Sam lightly pressed Dean down to sit on the edge of Abby's bed. "It still freaks me out," he said, "… to think he's been coming here for years." Sam lifted the afghans from Dean's shoulders and laid them across the headboard.

Dean felt goose flesh spring up across his shoulders at the loss of their warmth and the turn of Sam's thoughts.

"How much do you think Dad knew?" Sam asked as he knelt down.

Dean heard the familiar edge to his little brother's voice. He just didn't have enough brain cells functioning at the moment to wade into that pool with him. "We'll have to ask him," he sighed. "You ever notice that Abby's whole house is one giant scrap book?"

Sam's hands paused over Dean's boot laces. The abrupt change of subject hadn't snagged his attention as much as the weariness in his brother's voice. He reined in his Daddy angst. "Yeah, woman has a camera fetish." Sam pulled off one of Dean's heavy boots. "Actually, I bet it's Liz."

Derailment successful, Dean let his eyes return to the big white tub. He scooted his butt to the edge of the bed and barely managed to stand up. He cursed rudely when Sam reached for the button of his jeans.

Sam cocked one eyebrow at him then shrugged and backed off a step. After watching Dean struggle with the button for what seemed like five minutes, Sam said, "Dean, dude, either I help you with that, or Liz'll be back in here wondering where I am. You know she'll have you stripped and in that tub in ten seconds flat. Is that what you want?"

Sam got a panicky glare in response, and Dean allowed the task to be accomplished. Only the intermittent whiffs of the steaming aromas coming from the tub got him through the humiliating process of letting his little brother undress him and wrap a fluffy, yellow towel around his waist.

Dean's first thought when they finally reached the tub and looked in was, _Thank God, no bubbles._

Sam ran his fingers across the top of the water, "Hmmm, looks like about fifty gallons of hot milk." He took a deep breath. "Smells great."

It did smell great. Dean picked out rosemary, mint, lemon and a deeper scent almost like rich turned earth. He glanced sideways at the wistful look on his brother's face. "Don't get any ideas; I'm not sharin'."

"The tub's big enough."

"Dream on. You can go now." Dean flicked his fingers toward the door then leaned a hand lightly on the side of the tub and raised one foot up over the side.

Sam looked at him skeptically. "Don't get the bandages wet."

"I know." Dean sucked air through his teeth as his foot sank into the hot, milky water.

"It's supposed to be hot."

"I know."

"That towel's gonna have to come off."

"I know." Dean hiked up the towel then gingerly pulled his other foot in. Sam grabbed an elbow as he teetered just a bit before he found his balance. After standing for a moment deciding which view to face, Dean reckoned he'd had enough snowy vistas and chose the wood stove.

"Go down slow."

"I know! Sam get the hell out of here!"

"Ok, ok!" Sam backed away slowly. He kept his eyes on his brother till Dean had dropped the towel and lowered himself safely into the tub. Then he turned and slipped out the door, closed it gently then leaned his backside against it for a moment listening. When Sam caught himself standing there listening to a grown man trying to take a bath he grimaced. "Ah Dean, this mother hen thing is genetic. We must have gotten it from Mom." Sam snorted softly. "Sure as hell wasn't Dad." He pushed himself off the door and walked slowly back to the living room, half an ear on the man in the tub still.

Dean let out a heavy sigh when he finally heard the bedroom door click shut. He couldn't sink as far down into the blessedly hot water as he wanted to with his wrists propped up on the sides of the tub, but he scrunched down until the water lapped up over his shoulders. The steam rose into his face so heavily scented he could almost taste it. He laid his head against the rolled edge and closed his eyes.

Quivering spasms came as random memories from the night skittered across his mind and kept his belly tense. But each time he inhaled, the herbal scents of the steam filled his head and edged out a little more of the night. The heat penetrated skin, muscles and deep into bone. He felt his body grow heavy; his mind drifted.

"Ahhhh, yesss." Though his eye lashes had weights tied to them Dean forced his lids open. He just wasn't going to be able to enjoy this one hundred percent until he was clean. What he needed was a scrub brush on a nice long stick so he wouldn't get his wrists wet. Women had that kind of stuff in their bathrooms, didn't they? Maybe if he could find one and manage to hold on to it long enough he could get his torso free of every last molecule of that bloody…_Ahhhgh. Crap!_

The smell of blood and smoke sucker punched him and forced his stomach into his throat. He was back on the altar; not a memory; real. His skin crawled as the stiff bristles of the priests' brushes raked him.

"No, no," Dean whispered, panting. They ignored him, continued painting on the symbols that would bar his soul. Heart racing he hunched forward, eyes clinched shut; his arms moving to protect his chest.

Gentle hands closed over his and cut the flashback off like a faucet. He sat hunched over in the water, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"It's ok, Dean. We're all home."

"Abby?" He barely managed to croak her name past the knot in his throat.

Her voice came softly from close to his ear. "Yeah. You're ok. Sit back."

"What the hell? I didn't fall asleep." He shook his head as if to scramble the images in it. "This…this crap was happening in the car, but I thought…I thought the house would stop it, had stopped it."

"It did." Abby pressed her cheek against the side of his sweat slicked face and held it there till his breathing slowed. "Sit back," she whispered.

He started to comply then remembered where he was and in what state. His hands moved of their own volition toward the water. She tightened her grip.

"Wait, wait, you can't get our wrists wet. Don't worry, your modesty's intact". She guided his hands to the sides of the tub. "I can't see a thing through this milky water."

Dean forced his clenched jaws to relax and opened his eyes just enough to check out the surface of the water. After several seconds of trying to penetrate the murk, he decided it was safe enough. Dean allowed a flick of a smirk to tug at his lips at the note of disappointment he'd heard a second ago in Abby's voice. He pulled in a deep breath and leaned back against the tub, his body trembling with adrenalin.

"A flashback's not the same as what you went through outside the gate. There's nothing demonic tainting your system anymore. Lean your head back on this towel." She put a hand on his forehead and gently pushed it back. He looked up to an upside down view of her. Abby's hair was wet. Dark ringlets clung to her neck and lay against the collar of the pale pink robe that Liz had taken out earlier.

"Doc says you'll have some Post Traumatic Stress Disorder to deal with. I'm gonna wash your hair."

"What?"

"I'm gonna wash your hair."

"No, no. PTSD; like the guys coming back from Iraq?"

"Exactly."

She smoothed back his hair. Dean felt a pang of embarrassment at how grimy it must be, but then Abby poured warm water onto the top of his head. It melted through the grime like Aretha Franklin's voice through a cold heart. He let out a sigh instead of the protest he'd intended. He felt the adrenalin melt away. She worked the water through his hair with one hand and Dean heard it splatter onto the tile.

"Abby, I'm a hunter; I've dealt with trauma since I was four."

"Uh huh. Ever have your brother kidnapped by a demon, bring him back to life in a blizzard, get tortured, then kicked out of your own body before?"

"Hmmm," he mused, mustering up a frown. "Guess not."

"Well then, _that_ kind of trauma takes some adjusting to even for a hunter. Doc says the symptoms aren't likely to last long."

Dean heard the squeak of a squeeze bottle and a new scent reached his nose; strong, clean lemon. Abby began to massage shampoo into his hair with magic fingers that moved in delicious little circles all over his scalp. He sighed again and let his eyes close.

"I'll give you three days to stop that," Dean murmured. A coherent thought startled him, bubbling drunkenly to the surface of his mind. "What symptoms are we talking about here?"

"Anxiety, depression, inability to focus, loss of appetite." She paused and gently pushed his head back down when it rose up off the towel. Abby pressed her fingertips lightly to his temples and the little circles started again. "You won't necessarily have all the symptoms; they're just possibilities. We already talked about the nightmares. Flashbacks get triggered by just about anything; a sound, smell. They're unpredictable."

"Great." Not only was he never going to sleep again, but his waking hours would be hell too. "Did you go through any of this?"

"Oh yeah. Woke up screaming for a month."

"Oh boy."

"Don't worry, _I_ was extremely naive at the time. That fiasco was my intro to hunting remember."

"And you still wanted to hunt?"

"Yeah, weird, huh?"

Her fingers worked up along his hair line then back over the top of his scalp, her thumbs kneading two spots at the back of his neck. He felt kinks release with almost audible little pops over the rest of his body.

"You might want to talk to Dr. Q at some point."

He shifted in the tub. A few of the kinks knotted back into place. "About what? She a shrink too?"

"No. She's just seen at lot. She'll understand what's going on with you, might have some good advice. I think that's why your dad likes being with her."

"Mmph."

They sat in silence. Abby massaged the lemon shampoo into a frothy mound. He heard a dollop of it plop onto the tile floor. He looked up through slitted eyelids as she reached around him with a white ceramic pitcher; the old fashioned kind with the fat round bottom, and dipped it full of the milky water. With one hand pressed to his forehead Abby poured the water down over his head rinsing away the shampoo and the grime till his scalp tingled and her fingers squeaked against his clean hair.

She continued in the same soft reassuring voice. "Doc says terror overload causes PTSD. It's a defense mechanism. If your emotions didn't shut down while the trauma's actually happening you'd probably get yourself killed."

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as a bath sponge on a stick appeared in his line of vision. Women _do_ always have this kind of stuff. Abby dipped it in the still hot water and began to scrub his torso like she had his scalp in little circles that didn't miss a spot.

Dean felt awkward again. The intimacy of the situation was unlike anything he'd experienced before; at once sensual and practical, indulgent and necessary. He listened for any strain in her voice as she continued to relate what Doc had told her. He heard none; saw no timidity in her movements, only gentle thoroughness. He relaxed.

"So all this terror doesn't just go away," Abby continued. "It gets stored in your mind somewhere and once the fight's over and it's safe to feel all of it, it starts to leak out. You get it in small doses that you can deal with one at a time."

The ache in Dean's wrists resting along the sides of the tub subsided to a barely noticeable hum. The rest of his body became one with the hot water, the skin of his chests and abdomen where Abby skimmed the sponge tingled pleasantly. He hissed in a breath when she reached the tender skin at his throat.

"Too much?"

"Nah. Scrub it clean."

Abby reached around him; he felt her body press the top of his head as she removed the sponge from the stick and dipped it to the surface of the water to let it fill. She gently tipped his chin up and squeezed the warm water down over his throat. Dean felt her lips brush his forehead.

"Can you lean forward?"

Move? She wanted him to move? Dean felt like he'd soaked up most of the water in the tub like the sponge and weighed three hundred pounds. He wasn't at all sure he could move. Move?! "Sure, I can lean forward."

With supreme effort he managed to lift his head. It felt like a bowling ball on the end of a wet noodle. He found his abs to be completely useless and gripped the sides of the tub with his hands to pull himself up which sent a piercing pain up his arms. "Damn it!"

Strong, soft hands on his shoulders gave him a gentle push. Dean cleared his throat to cover a groan as he came up to sitting. The water sloshed toward his feet in a little wave that lapped the end of the tub. Another groan escaped his lips as Abby started her meticulous scrubbing across his back. This was about as close to ecstasy as he was likely to get alone in the tub.

"You know, that's the first time you've lied to me," Abby said.

"What?" He wasn't sure he'd heard her. His focus was drifting lazily between the sponge skimming along his skin and her hand on his shoulder supporting him.

"Nope, no lies except that little white one just now."

He frowned. "Sure I did."

"Sorry to mess with your world view, but no you haven't."

He frowned some more; tried to send his water logged mind back through the past few days, but the sponge was too distracting. He'd never met a women, or anybody for that matter that he didn't lie to about something within the first fifteen minutes of meeting them; false names, occupations, quick talk to smooth the road to whatever he needed on the hunt. Lies came as naturally to him as breathing. This _was_ messing with his world view. "I'll have to work on that."

"You'll never get away with it. Remember, my gift. I'll always know," Abby warned in a sing-songy voice.

Dean couldn't see her face, but he could hear her smiling. He sighed. "I'm gifted too, ya know."

"Is that a challenge Mr. Winchester?"

"For you maybe. I'm that good."

"Liar."

He smiled a bleary smile and let his chin droop to his chest.

The last words he heard were, "Dean?" Abby's soft chuckle. "Dean, stay awake while I get Sam." Her lips on his forehead. "I'll just be a sec…"

AN: Read the chapter again and whenever it says, "Abby" pretend it actually says, "Instert your name here," just for fun. ;-) Four chapters to go folks! Let's see, there's new sleeping arrangements, angry Sam, a dinner party, talisman training...


	27. Chapter 27, Talisman

Chapter 27

Sam and Abby took the first few nights in four hour shifts. Nightmares surfaced as promised and not just with Dean. Nobody got much sleep.

Every morning Liz arrived like a USO volunteer to cheer up the beleaguered troops, brewing coffee, frying bacon and eggs or whipping up a batch of cinnamon rolls. She always left them with something bubbling away in the crock pot for dinner before she took the PM shift at the pharmacy.

Within four days some semblance of natural sleep patterns had returned. Sleeping arrangements had also solidified by mutual, but unspoken agreement, with Sam upstairs and Abby and Dean down. Dean's nightmares woke them all less and less frequently. Sam would listen through the heating vents to the muffled sounds of his brother's frustrated curses in the middle of the night and Abby's murmured reassurances till silence returned and he could drift back to sleep.

The smell of a hard-boiled egg and a heavy book dropped casually on to Dean's lap triggered flashbacks. As horrifying as they were for him, they had an equally gut wrenching effect on the two people watching him go through them. The startled moments before Abby and Sam realized what was happening, desperate attempts to pull Dean out of it without making it worse, then bringing him down trembling and sweating when it was over, left all three of them strung out.

They drank a lot of Doc's teas.

Fortunately, that particular form of terror leakage only happened twice. After making it through the next two days flashback free, Dean dared to hope that he'd plugged most of the leaks and he wasn't going to lose his sanity after all.

At the end of the week, Doc made another visit and pronounced everyone to be healing admirably. He gave permission for outings and solo showers for Dean, if he cared to do so. He did not.

Sam ventured out of the house first and found himself on campus. During his previous visit there, only a little more than a week ago, he'd been too addled by the coven to take much in. Now every afternoon he drove the Impala, parked off campus and walked to the library indulging himself in memories of his all too brief foray into normal life at Stanford.

When he and Jess lived together, she was forever tempting him away from his books and admonishing his taciturn outlook on life. Every Saturday night Jess pulled him off to get-togethers with friends. Parties, those were called parties. She called Sam her Mystery Man from the Midwest. Ridiculous. Endearing.

Sam ended his walks onto campus in the pit. He found a willing ally in Carl. They spent each afternoon researching the ancestry of Vetis Izar Garanth, and trying to find answers to what it meant to be _angel-touched_ and a _guardian_.

Sam didn't tell Carl about his dreams, but he looked for references to precognition in the pit's vast collection too. His dreams, the 'normal' ones, the visions or whatever it was that made him see death before it happened, hadn't returned since the onslaught of the coven's nightmares. But he knew, just as he knew down deep that he'd never return to the kind of life he'd tasted with Jess, that they _would_ come back.

Abby and Dean hiked; around her property at first then further and further afield as Dean's endurance returned. The weather turned mild for a Rocky Mountain November. Temperatures stayed in the low thirties. The snow the storm had deposited like an afterthought at the base of the range on Halloween night melted under the onslaught of blazing sun and clear blue skies. The kiss of a chill breeze and warm sun on his skin was a pleasure Dean savored.

The couple talked about themselves, their lives, parents, relationships, sports, movies, the weather anything and everything _except the hunt_. There was a sense of urgency in their exploration as if they needed to learn and experience everything about each other as quickly as possible to store it up for the long inevitable dry spell to come.

On their first trip outside Abby led Dean slowly around the house to a spot some little distance from her kitchen window. They sat in an old, oak porch swing that hung from three thick cedar posts. They sat close and Abby wrapped them both in a quilt. The sun, not quite risen to noon warmed their backs and lit the mountain range before them like a grand movie set. Dean exhaled a deep sigh.

There was that awe again.

Abby started the swing moving with the tip of her booted toe. They rocked and took in the view with their shoulders pressed together and their fingers intertwined.

"This is free?" Dean asked after a long moment and swept his arm out, caped in the blanket, to indicate the panorama.

"Yep."

After several more moments disturbed only by the chatter of a flock of grackles in the dormant grass, Dean shifted, sending the swing into a wobbly rock.

"You cold?" Abby reached up to pull the quilt higher up on his shoulders.

"Nah." His eyes were cast down. She noticed then that he ran a finger back and forth across the silver bracelet on her wrist. "Abby, talk to me about talismans."

She pulled back a bit and looked up at him, surprised by this choice of topic since it skirted so close to the edge of shop talk. She lowered her hand from his shoulder to the little angel hanging as it always did at his neck. She lifted it and turned it in her fingers.

"This was your mom's?"

"Yeah. It's about the only thing we pulled out of the fire." Dean's hand came up and she dropped the angel into his palm.

He had a vivid memory that he could call up like a ten second movie clip. His mother leaning down to him, her face alight with laughter; the angel swinging away from her chest; long blond hair brushing his cheek, the scent of toast on her breath. The image had no context and lasted no more than a few heartbeats, but it was the most real one he still had of her.

The little angel's silver surface shone dully in his palm. He'd never polished it. The engraving that once must have represented feathers on the tiny outspread wings was barely visible. Fine scratches and dents marred the robes and head of the figure.

"Do you know where she got it?"

"Not really. Dad says it's a family heirloom."

"So it could have been passed down from one of her parents?"

"I guess. Would that mean something."

"Mm-hmm. A talisman can be anything; a rabbit's foot, a stone." She shrugged.

"Anything that the bearer believes will protect them. Each bearer imbues the talisman with his or her own…vibe." Abby held up her wrist. Her talisman, the simple twist of silver, glowed in the sunlight. "My dad gave me this. He bought it in a shop in Mexico. I don't know its history, but it has meaning to me. That alone lets me use it as a focus for my spells."

Abby glanced up at Dean expecting skepticism, finding only quiet attentiveness. She went on, "Now when a talisman is passed down like your angel it actually carries some power of its own."

"What do you mean power of its own?"

"Well, mostly a talisman acts as a focus for the bearer. A new piece; a crystal or a charm that's never been used as a talisman before would be more or less effective depending solely on the person wielding it. On the other hand, an old piece that's been used for a long time, but got picked up at a pawn shop at random let's say, would carry a measure of its own power no matter how talented or even aware of magic the bearer was." She tilted her head asking if she still had him on all of this.

"I'm with ya so far. An old talisman would give some protection even to some Neanderthal who didn't believe in magic." Dean gave her a one sided grin.

"Yeah, even one of those." Abby leaned in and kissed him lightly on his big, thick brow. "Ok, so the most powerful, or potentially powerful talisman is an old one, intentionally passed down from one person to another."

"Like mine."

"Right. Blood ties would be the strongest, but any loving relationship would strengthen it; husband to wife, lover to lover, friend to friend. The stronger the bond, the stronger the talisman."

Dean picked up the angel and held it in the sun light. For a moment the memory of the demon's breath on the little figure tightened his chest. He closed his fist around the angel_. _His heart began to hammer.

Abby pressed closer to him afraid he was heading into another flashback. "Dean?"

"I'm ok." Once he was sure he really was, he let his hand drop into his lap. Abby's fingers curled back into his and he felt her relax beside him. "Abby, I want to learn to use it."

"I'll teach you."

That night and several after, when they gathered back home around the kitchen table they experimented with Dean's "guardian powers" and met mostly with frustration. The power to heal Sam seemed to be dependent on life threatening situations. Laying hands on Sam's blistered finger when he burned it on a chocolate chip cookie fresh out of the oven had no effect. Sam went for an ice cube instead. Abby's advice was to be patient and keep practicing.

They did eventually make some progress. When they sat cross-legged facing each other in front of the fireplace one afternoon practicing "sitting", Abby called it, Dean felt the angel go warm in his hand.

"Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Let your mind go quiet. Just get out of your own way."

It had taken Dean three days to get the "quiet mind" thing past the point of sitting there thinking, _Don't think about anything, just my breathing. There's nothing on my mind, absolutely nothing. Hey, I'm doing it. I'm not thinking at all…doh!_

"Let the pendant and your breathing fill your mind. Be quiet and listen," Abby said, in a soft and level voice. "Just sit and see what comes to you."

The image of the little, silver angel grew in his mind that afternoon as it grew warm in his hand. It became a ball of light somewhere in the middle of his chest. The light expanded; a tingle spread down his legs and arms and out through the top of his head. Dean felt a flush warm his cheeks.

Abby used her Sight when they practiced. Today her eyes widened as she Watched Dean's aura go blindingly bright. _My God, he's amazing. All that power, all connected to Sam_. Siblings always had a bond or at least some kind of special reaction to one another. Abby knew a sister and brother whose auras actually repelled each other. But this bond between Sam and Dean; so natural, effortless, was like nothing she'd ever Seen before. She knew as she watched it expand out into the room and beyond that his aura sought Sam's.

Dean let out a gasp and his eyes flew open. "Oh man, he's ticked!"

She didn't have to ask who. "Why?"

"No idea." Dean exhaled hard and shook his head, frustrated. "I got a wave of feelings. Sam's mad, confused. The boy's a mess." He stood. "I gotta go."

"Dean wait." Abby reached for his hand. "Was he scared? Do you know where he is?"

Dean frowned. "No and no, damn it."

"It's 4:30, he's probably on his way back from the pit. Just wait till he gets here. It doesn't sound like he's in trouble, just upset."

He paced around to the other side of the coffee table and stood by the couch. "What good is this thing?" Dean flicked the angel and it spun up off his shirt. "I can't heal so much as a blistered finger, can't tell where he is even when he's in trouble. So I know what mood he's in, so what? Sam's already an open book."

Exasperation sent spikes of orange through Dean's aura. Abby closed her Sight.

"Come on Dean." She rose and resettled onto the couch hoping to entice him to sit next to her. "Sam didn't really need his finger healed the other night, did he? Healing's gotta be triggered by a more desperate situation than cookie burns. And you don't have conscious control, not yet."

He was still pacing.

"Look, before you even knew how to use your mom's necklace you saved Sam's life; you brought him back from hypothermia, you healed his frostbite! Heck, Sam used the angel to lead you back to your body. It works. It's just going to take time."

Dean slowed his laps across her rug.

"Ok, so Sam's an open book. Have you ever had this clear of a connection to his feelings when he's not even in the same building?"

"No." Dean admitted grudgingly. "This was different."

"Ok, so we _have_ made progress." She stood and walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Be patient with yourself and keep practicing." She looked up at his still troubled face. "What's wrong?"

Abby saw the muscle in his jaw clench and waited.

As his arms wrapped around her, he cleared his throat and dropped his forehead down to briefly meet hers then turned his face up to stare out the big front window.

"This guardian thing…" His voice was quiet, thoughtful. "… I've been taking care of Sam since I was four; it's a big brother thing, ya know? It's what I do." He paused, struggled to put his thoughts into words. "Now, this thing I've done my whole life without even thinking about it, is… bigger. A frickin' demon gave it a name." Dean let out a short sigh. "And Sam's dreaming the future."

He felt Abby give a little start and pulled back to look at her. Dean realized with his own little jolt that they hadn't told her the particulars about Sam's otherdreams. "Yeah, that's his _gift_. He dreams people's deaths before they happen." He paused and Abby laid her head against his chest waiting. "Jessica's was the first. Sam saw it happen days earlier. He didn't stop it."

"Oh God, Dean."

"Yeah. Then there was a woman in Lawrence about a month later. We saved that one, and her kids." His arms tightened and his voice took on an edge. "It feels like we're bein' herded toward somethin'. We're both suddenly goin' X-man. Why?" The jaw muscled clenched again. "I just wish…"

She squeezed him tightly. His heart beat steadily against her cheek. "I know. I wish your dad was here too."

"We have to find him, Abby."

They stood for a moment letting the press of bodies steady troubled thoughts.

"Dean, when Sam comes home, I'm not sure you should tell him about being able to tap into his feelings."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Girl, you think I'm suicidal? Nah, till I get my Spidey sense fine tuned, I'll just keep it to myself." He sniffed. "In fact, I seriously doubt Sammy's ever gonna need to know about it."

"Good thinkin', Spidey."

AN: Wow, folks, three chapters left. I'll try to post them fairly quickly. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you stuck with Coven this far. :) Thanks.


	28. Chapter 28, Going Away Party

AN: Sorry this took me so long to post. It's harvest time here in the midwest. When you gotta make jelly, you gotta make jelly. And don't even get me started on the tomatos! :q

After a lot of tweaking, I ended up combining two chapters here. They just didn't make sense as seperate entities.

Chapter 28

Sam clicked the cell phone shut with an angry snap. Just like yesterday and the day before, he'd come out of the pit with more questions than when he'd gone in.

He and Carl found little solid information on Vetis. There were a hundred demons that could have spawned him, a million reasons he might have been banished by any one of them and no good reason that Sam or Carl could see that Vetis or his parent would target the Winchesters.

The old volumes they went through were rife with stories of guardians and guardian angels. But Dean was about as far from angelic as you could get and still be human. Which was kind of comforting to Sam.

Because if it was Dean's destiny to spend his life charging off like some avenging angel after any demon that threatened his helpless, baby brother …. Well, that just sucked. Big time. How could even the powers-that-be think he needed babysitting? _What is so frickin' special about me anyway?!_

Sam found a hundred stories about prophets, seers, psychics, but none of them shed any light on what he was going through. Nothing said, "Sam Winchester is seeing people die in his dreams because…" They'd found twenty references to humans being touched by angels with results ranging from the virgin birth to instant insanity. Both extremely disturbing possibilities. The more information he and Carl dug up, the more confused Sam became.

This afternoon, after eight long hours in the pit, he'd stormed out of the library, flipped open his cell and, almost of their own volition, his fingers had dialed their father's number. Sam hadn't spoken to Dad since he left for Stanford. The sound of his recorded voice started a familiar knot of anger and longing twisting in Sam's belly.

"This is John Winchester. I'm going to be out of touch for a while. If this is an emergency call my son Dean at…"

_What if the emergency is about your son Dean, Dad?_ Sam gritted his teeth.

"Dad, this is Sam. We're in Colorado Springs…with Abby. We ran into…"

_The demon you neglected to warn us about and a group of people who treat us like family and saved our lives, but you didn't figure we'd ever need… _His grip on the phone tightened.

"…trouble. Dean got pretty messed up."

_He died, Dad! He fuckin' died on an altar!_

"He's ok now, but he could really use a call from you." Sam paused to rake his fingers through is hair. "Look Dad, I have a lot of questions. Weird things are happening and I just…I wish we knew where the hell you are!" Sam clamped his jaws down and swallowed hard. "Just call Dean, Dad." He snapped the phone closed.

"Damn it!" Sam knuckled his eyes and looked around to see if what felt like a huge emotional outburst had attracted any attention. It hadn't. Students bustled in and out of the library entrance oblivious as ever.

Sam drove around town for an hour cooling off. By the time he walked up Abby's stone pathway most of his frustration and anger had morphed into a powerful need to get on the road. Their dad's trail grew colder every day. What if he'd already found the demon that killed their mom and Jess and was fighting it alone? That just didn't bear thinking about. Sam stopped and leaned on the front porch railing attempting to calm his churning thoughts before he went inside to face his brother.

Sam understood Dean's need to heal and his need to be with Abby. As much as he loved seeing his brother smitten especially with a woman as incredible as this one, their relationship worried him. Would Dean leave her? Sam couldn't help but compare this situation to his own a couple months ago. If Jess hadn't been killed…. He wouldn't have left her to go back on the road with Dean.

If it came down to it, could he drive out of here alone? The prospect opened a black pit in Sam's chest and sent his gut flip-flopping over the edge.

Sam took a deep breath and opened the front door slowly.

"Honey, I'm home," Dean sang out from the couch in front of the fireplace. He threw a glance and the taunt over his shoulder.

"Hey," Sam said quietly. He hung his coat on the peg and came around the side of the couch.

Dean sat propped up on the edge, his spread knees poking out of the holes in his jeans. His wrists were unbandaged. Only the tips of the scabbed-over wounds showed vivid red against the cuffs of his blue, flannel shirt. He held a long, thin cleaning rod fitted with a tiny barrel brush. The coffee table was covered with newspaper, and a handgun in pieces.

"Hey, the Beretta! Where'd that come from?" Sam asked, glad for a little delay to the conversation he was going to have to start.

"Daryl dropped it off about lunch time. He found it in the ruins after the fire'd burned itself out."

"What about the knife? Your phone?"

"Nah, the cell's gotta be slag. He didn't find the knife, not yet."

Sam leaned in to take a closer look at the Beretta. "Looks a little charred."

"Yeah, but salvageable, thank goodness. I love this piece. Just needs a good cleaning."

Dean put a drop of solvent on the brush then carefully inserted the cleaning rod into the barrel and proceeded to gently scrub it. This was a labor of love for Dean. Sam had watched his brother spend hours maintaining all of their weapons for as long as he could remember. Some people knit, Dean cleaned and sharpened weapons.

Sam wished he had something to do with _his_ hands. He backed up to the fire crackling in the hearth and spread his palms toward it. Warmth toasted the backs of his jeans and soaked through two layers of shirts. The smell of dinner wafted to his nostrils.

As he felt his shoulders unclench a little and his stomach growl, Sam grimaced. Forget how he was going to get _Dean_ to leave this place, how was _he_ gonna to do it?!

"Where's Abby?"

"Makin' a grocery store run. I put a few things on her list."

Sam raised his eyebrows feigning interest, but barely listened. He was relieved that Abby was out for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to talk to Dean alone first.

Dean continued. "I figured it was about time we did an inventory, and our laundry; get ma' baby stocked up and road worthy."

Sam's head came up. "What?"

Dean looked at his brother, amused. "Come on Sam, you weren't planning on settling down here forever were you?"

"Me? No, no…" Sam cleared his throat. "Were you?"

Dean narrowed his eyes and gave him a long look. The barely masked dread on Sam's face, made him look more like a _little_ brother than he had in years. He shifted under Dean's scrutiny and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"So _that's_ what's got you so edgy." Sam frowned at him. Several pathways opened up in Dean's mind. Sam was so easy to torture. But another glance told him to walk the straight and narrow. The anguish radiating off his brother cut a little too deep.

"Look Sam, I can't tell you I'm not tempted." A self conscious smile touched Dean's lips. "Abby's…not an easy person to walk away from. Not for me anyway."

Dean shifted on the couch, suddenly almost as uncomfortable as Sam. He studied the dissected Berretta in front of him for a moment then shook his head and smiled crookedly up at his brother. "Can you believe _I'm_ the one saying this?"

Sam gave him a worried smile. "No. But Dean, I understand it."

Dean sobered, "Yeah, I know you do." He caught his brother's eyes for a moment. "But we still have a job. Not to mention an AWOL father to find and a demon to kill." He paused, frowning. "The timing just sucks. I've got too many unanswered questions messin' with my head right now and I hate that."

"God, yeah." Relief chased the tension out of twitching muscles and left Sam practically weak in the knees. He fumbled around the coffee table to collapse beside his brother on the couch.

"Dean, I really wish I could convince myself that the answers are all here or in the pit, but after the past few days, I'm comin' up empty, man. All I do is add to the list of questions."

"I know. The answers are out on the road. Maybe with Dad."

The mention of his father brought a shadow back to Sam's face. "Yeah, maybe."

Dean caught the shift in mood and decided to shift it back. "So, how bout you get us a couple beers and help me clean this fine weapon till the little woman gets home."

Sam stood up, feeling lighter on his feet than he had all day. "Oh, that's dangerous talk. Abby could have some magical spy ware in here, ya know. She'll kick your butt she hears you talkin' like that."

"Talkin' like what?" Abby walked through the door a cloth bag of groceries hanging from each hand.

Sam hurried over and reached for the handles. "Nuthin'." He peered down as he took the weight of the bags. Interesting things overflowed from the tops; two baguettes, a bottle of champagne, several of the biggest mushrooms he'd ever seen. "You planning a feast?" Sam asked as he turned with the bags and headed out to the kitchen.

"She invited people for dinner," Dean informed him.

"I'll be right back." Abby was out the door before Sam dropped the bags on the counter.

He reappeared and stood in the kitchen doorway a moment later with a pint of Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream in each hand.

"People? Like a dinner party?"

"I guess." Dean twisted a small white cotton patch onto the jag on the end of the cleaning rod.

"You ever been to a dinner party, Dean?"

Dean frowned down as he carefully inserted the rod into the barrel. It poked out the other end with black dust smudging the white patch.

"Well, sure I have."

"When?"

Dean's eyes narrowed and he turned impatiently to glare at Sam. "You can't expect me to remember every dinner party I've ever been to. Put that ice cream away."

"Just one, Dean. Just tell me one dinner party you've been to," Sam insisted then turned to put the ice cream in the freezer knowing that his brother wouldn't be able to supply an answer.

Dean pulled out the cleaning rod and set the pieces down carefully. "Look, what's to remember? You have dinner, you party."

Sam came in to stand by the couch grinning. "Uh-huh."

"I'll handle it," Dean growled.

Sam's grin turned slowly into a puzzled frown as he realized something was off. "Is this a going away party?"

"Yeah. We talked this afternoon. Seemed like a good idea."

"But, _we_ hadn't talked." Sam waved a hand back and forth between the two of them. "How did you know I was getting antsy for the road?"

Dean quickly focused all of his attention the oiled cloth and the Baretta's magazine. "Hey, you're an open book, Sammy. What can I say?"

"It's, 'You're an open book, _Sam_.' And no, I'm not." Sam's voice dripped with indignation.

"Oh yeah. You are," Dean smirked.

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Guys!" Abby came in closing the door with one hip, her hands full once again with bags. "Wait for me before you start fighting," she said with a sunny smile.

Sam smacked Dean on the back of his head then successfully dodged his brother's counter strike as he hurried over to relieve Abby of her burden.

"Just this one." She handed him an over-loaded package. As Sam headed for the kitchen, Abby took off her coat and hung it on the peg next to Sam's.

Dean, dismembered weapon forgotten, twisted around and watched her over the back of the couch. She had on her city coat; deep chocolate brown canvas that flashed a tan plaid lining as she unbuttoned it. Her white parka hadn't survived its adventure. Blood and unholy grime had to be burned out of your clothes not washed. Tonight her jeans were cinched just below her belly button with a wide belt and hugged her hips in an unassuming, sexy kind of way that accentuated the hot, little body he was coming to know and love.

"Wow, it's turning cold out there." Abby bent over the last bag as she set it on the floor, rubbing cold hands together.

"Come over here and let me warm you up," Dean suggested with a wolfish grin.

Abby turned a smoldering little smile on him that left him momentarily breathless.

"I've got a surprise for you," she cooed.

Dean swallowed and his eyebrows slowly inched toward his hairline. He shot a glance toward the kitchen door that Sam had just passed through.

Abby walked to the couch with her hands behind her back. "Turn around. No peaking."

Dean complied reluctantly and she came up directly behind him, her belly lightly brushing the back of his head. With a throaty chuckle he tilted his head back and she leaned down to give him a Spider Man kiss.

"Did your brother say something about your butt needing kicking?" She whispered so close that he felt her breath against his ear. He reached up a hand and ran his fingers into the curls at the base of her neck, closed the distance between their mouths again and trapped her there. A pleasant little moan escaped her.

Sam cleared his throat. Again. "What 'cha got behind your back there, Abby?" he caroled. He got no satisfaction from having startled them when they both turned to him with totally unapologetic smiles.

"Just a little surprise to help you guys beef up that pitiful arsenal you have in the Bat Mobile."

Sam walked up to her, curious and she turned to keep her surprise hidden then with a flourish said, "Tah-dah!" She brought her hands out to reveal two unbelievably garish and totally cool water guns.

"Whoa, Abby these are great!" Sam said as she handed him the yellow one.

"My friend Michael found them."

Dean squinted. "Wow. Bright."

"Of course it's bright. You wouldn't want to get confused in the middle of a brawl with a vampire and come up with bullets instead of holy water, would ya?"

"True. I hadn't thought of that." Dean turned the weapon in his hands. It looked like a Disney Land versions of the Baretta.

"They each hold about a pint of holy water. Oh, and I talked to Father Brian. We can stock you up tomorrow morning."

"Great, thank Michael for us," Dean added.

"You can thank him yourselves. He's coming to dinner."

"They're not loaded," Sam commented with a note of disappointment in his voice.

"You don't think I'm nuts enough to hand you two loaded water guns in my living room do you?" She gestured archly to each of them. They looked down, guiltily noticing that the guns were already pointed not so innocently at each other.

Sam sputtered, "We wouldn't have…"

"What do you think we are, twelve?"

"I refuse to answer that question since I need your help finishing up dinner. Come on, everybody'll be here in about an hour."

Everybody turned out to be Liz and Daryl, Carl, Henry, Dr. Q, Doc and Michael.

Michael was Sam's height, but maybe two hundred and thirty pounds, most of it belly and black smith's arms. He kept his long, graying hair which started from a circle around the bald crown of his head tied back in a pony tail that went nearly to his shoulder blades. When he entered the house he swept the room's other occupants with a glower then stomped over to Abby, picked her up and swung her around as if she were five. He didn't say a word.

Within seconds of setting a breathless Abby back on terra firma the weapons master locked his eyes onto the waist band of Dean's jeans. "Fine weapon."

Dean's eyebrows climbed to his hairline taking in Michael's comment and the direction of his gaze. Then he remembered the Baretta. He'd hastily tucked it there when the first guests had arrived a bit early, "Oh, you mean this," Dean tugged the clean, shiny weapon out and laid it on his palm. "Thanks. I just restored her. She got a little scorched in the fire up at Piper's Meadow."

"Hmmph," Michael said succinctly. "What else ya got?"

Dean straightened his shoulders with a little smile. "Follow me." The two disappeared. They had to be called to come into dinner… twice.

The talk around the table turned into a competition with everyone trying to out astonish Henry, the newby, with ghost stories, and other only slightly exaggerated hair raising, supernatural tales. For his part, Henry didn't disappoint. Liz reached over several times to lift his chin back into place, but he absorbed all the new information with a spark of excitement and curiosity in his eyes rather than fear and passed the first step into the ever expanding inner circle.

The Winchesters did more listening than talking. This brand of camaraderie still felt new to both of them. Dean just sat back and shook his head several times during dinner when Sam darted him bemused looks.

After they'd eaten, Dean, clinging to the last shreds of his invalid status was shooed into the living room while everyone else cleaned up and served dessert. He dropped an album onto the turntable and the sounds of Abby Road joined the clatter of dishes and laughter from the kitchen.

He'd just sunk contentedly onto the couch when Dr. Q approached.

"Do you mind?" She asked, indicating the wine velvet chair beside the fire.

He hesitated only a moment. "No, be my guest."

Firelight glinted off the curved edge of her wine glass as she sat. In black corduroy pants and a soft gray turtleneck sweater Dr. Q looked less…formidable than she had back in her office. Maybe he'd gotten to know her a little better tonight, maybe it was the relaxed way she leaned back into the big, soft chair, or maybe it was just the beer he'd had with dinner.

They sat for several moments, Dean looking into the fire uncomfortably aware that Dr. Q was looking at him.

"The woman you saved; her name is Sarah Morgan." Dr. Q said quietly.

Dean's hands stilled on the tops of his thighs. His heart tried to turn into a ball of ice, but decided to beat double time instead. "Saving her was all Sam, not me."

"I'd say all three of you had a hand in it."

Dean kept his gaze on the fire refusing to meet her eyes.

Dr. Q continued conversationally. "She was the newest member of the coven. Ten months ago, driving back from a family visit over the holidays, she fell asleep at the wheel, wrecked her car. Her husband was killed. She was pregnant at the time. She lost the baby as well."

Dean fought down a pang of unwelcome sympathy.

"The coven recruited her at a grief counseling session at her church about two months after the accident. Vetis fueled her guilt. He probably found it quite easy to convince her that she was evil incarnate and only he could offer her punishment equal to her crime." Dr Q paused. "She's Sam's age."

Dean looked up at her then. "Why are you telling me this?"

She shrugged. "I find it fascinating that even at the core of deepest darkness you three found an innocent life. It seems unlikely doesn't it? It's almost as if you were guided there for that purpose."

"Like I said, maybe Sam was. I 'd have let her burn." _After tonight there are no innocents;_ his own words from that night. He'd believed them at the time. "Are you trying to tell me that this whole nightmare happened so we'd be there to save that…"

"Sarah Morgan."

He wished she'd stop making the woman so damned human. "Yeah."

Dr. Q took another sip of wine her large brown eyes focused on nothing in particular as she thought. "Well, it puts a kind of yin-yang spin on the incident doesn't it? There's a big picture to your family's saga that we haven't yet discerned. Your mother's murder and your father's quest fit into it. Perhaps Sarah Morgan and others like her are pieces of it too. You banished the darkness that night and saved the light; at least one innocent light, in addition to your own of course."

Dean huffed out a laugh. "Dr. Q, I'm no innocent."

She didn't say anything, but the look that came over her was so much like the one he'd hallucinated on this father's face Halloween night that he had to look away.

"Perhaps for you and Sam at least, the hunt has balance; a purpose higher than simple revenge and destruction."

_The way it is for Dad_, Dean thought, then turned away from that idea uncomfortably. "Yeah, we're a couple of superheroes."

Dr. Q's brows rose and she barked out a throaty laugh. "Oh Dean, you must have inherited your mother's sense of humor because your father…" She chuckled some more. "…your father simply has none."

"Isn't that the truth!" Sam said as he came into the room carrying a tray of small dishes mounded with ice cream. The rest of the in-crowd followed.

"Look who's talking," Dean said more than a little relieved to be rescued from the intimate conversation. He stood and took the tray from Sam and set it on the coffee table.

"What? I tell jokes."

"Yeah, lame, brainy ones."

Sam sputtered trying to come up with an example. "My joke about Clarence Darrow is funny."

A loud snort came from Liz, and Abby quickly turned away from Sam suddenly busy with the stereo.

"What?"

"Honey, there's nothin' funny about Clarence Darrow." Liz informed him with an arched brow.

"Who's Clarence Darrow?" Henry asked innocently.

Dean's arm flew up. "Exactly my point."

"Ah, come on! Let me tell it. You'll love it."

"Noooo!" Everyone in the room chorused at once.

The evening ended with a brainstorming session. But despite the ingestion of huge quantities of Chunky Monkey, nobody came up with any particularly inspiring explanations why the Winchesters seemed to be people of interest to the demonic world.

Still, Sam and Dean slept with lighter hearts. The burden had been shared; uncertainties, worries, doubts aired and dissected. If this group couldn't come up with a plausible theory then nobody could, at least not with the information they had at the moment.

It was time to hit the road.

AN: Ok, folks since I combined two chapters here, next chapter – grand finale! I'll save all my soppy thank-yous and good-byes till then. Sniff... :


	29. Chapter 29, Sweet Goodbyes

**AN:** I have this thing about introducing people I like to other people I like and seeing if they like each other. Over the last couple of months, I've "met" some really fabulous folks! You know who you are. ; ) So, to get y'all together, I'm starting up a forum on this site called, "Seriously…..writing?" You're all invited to pop in. You can get to know each other and we'll talk about our obsession...this writing thing. Readers, you're invited too. Tell us what draws you to a story. The easiest way to find the forum is to go to my profile. I hope to see you there! -El :D

And now without further ado, here's…

**Chapter 29, Sweet Good-byes.**

Another glorious fall day dawned, but the weather was changing. To the east the pale sun rose in a clear sky. To the west gray, liquid clouds obscured the mountain tops. They'd have another snow before noon.

Car packed, the Winchester boys and Abby stood at the curb not knowing how to part company.

Dean slouched against the driver's door watching the clouds roll in. Sam slammed the trunk closed and walked up to stand beside his brother. Abby faced them leaning against her gate.

She sighed, "Well somebody's gotta do it."

She pushed away from the gate and turned to Sam first. Abby started to reach up to put her arms around his neck; decided that was too much of a stretch and slipped them around his waist.

Sam turned his head and rested his cheek on the top of her head as she pressed her face into his chest. "Good-bye little sister," he said and tightened his arms around her. Sam felt her stiffen before she squeezed him back.

When she pulled away Abby raised one eyebrow at him and said, "Let's get this straight, you're the_ little_ brother."

"Oh yeah?" He straightened to his full height.

A grin spread across Abby's face as she looked up into his nostrils. "We'll discuss this on the sparing mat in my basement when you come back."

Sam smiled and took her hand in both of his and kissed it lightly. "Thanks for everything."

"Right back at ya."

Abby backed away and Sam walked around to the passenger door. Not until he'd gotten in and closed it again did she turn to Dean.

Abby shoved her finger tips into the front pockets of her jeans and stepped closer. Dean turned away from the mountains and leaned a hip against the car. He had on his own leather jacket again. His layers of cotton and flannel today were grey and red. He turned the collar up against the chill north wind as she watched.

_God, he makes me hungry, _Abby thought has her heart did a little soft-shoe against her breast bone. _How am I gonna live on bread and water till he comes back?_ She reached out and lightly lifted the angel on his chest. Her fingers found the small red crystal that now hung by a tiny silver clasp beside his talisman on the leather string.

She'd given it to him last night in lieu of promises and commitments. It was very old; her grandmother's. Passed from grandmother to granddaughter, now from lover to lover, it stored great power; power he could tap into when he learned how; power to help him focus his own.

And just as importantly to both of them, it was a piece of home, a piece of her. The crystal was her way of insuring that no matter how far into the dark the hunt might take him, he could find his way home.

"Keep practicing."

"I will." Dean stepped toward her and his arms wrapped around her waist.

Abby pulled in a long slow breath and almost regretted it. The clean, masculine smell of him did nothing to assuage the hunger. Still, just to torture herself she leaned closer and pulled his collar aside to brush her cheek against the soft skin there and inhaled deeply again. When her lips pressed the pulse point of his neck, the smallest of moans rumbled up from Dean's chest.

Abby drew back and dropped her chin. "I refuse to let this become a soppy Romeo and Juliet moment."

"Thank God," Dean breathed.

Abby lifted her eyes and found him studying her face as if he'd memorize every line, every pore. The intensity of his gaze had the color rising in her cheeks. When Dean smiled at her blush, it took her breath away.

"You take my breath away," he murmured.

That surprised a laugh out of her. "I was just thinking the same thing."

"This is…difficult." Dean raised a hand to her face to run his fingers across her cheek.

Abby nodded. "It'll get harder and harder every time you come back."

"Till one day it'll be too much." Dean shrugged one shoulder. "And I'll have to stay."

Abby's smile widened and his hand went to the nape of her neck. He drew her close and kissed her.

Last kisses are difficult things to pull off, Sam thought. It's gotta be sweet; being the last memory the lovers will cling to, but it is the _last_ kiss; which means you can't start something you aren't gonna be able to finish. It's a difficult balancing act. Abby and Dean got it just right.

Sam had never seen his brother in love. In lust, yes, often, but not this tender, vulnerable state. He watched them, unconcerned with being caught peeping. They wouldn't have noticed if a hippo had rolled by on a skate board. Sam couldn't help a pang of envy.

He turned to the opposite window when Dean finally reached down and opened the door. Dean lowered himself into the driver's seat and rolled down the window. Abby leaned in.

"See ya, Sam."

"Definitely." He smiled and looked across at her, but her eyes weren't on him. Sam turned the smile toward his lap.

They still had fingers intertwined on the door. One more press of palms together then Abby backed away.

Dean put the key into the ignition and brought the car roaring to life all without taking his eyes off of her. When the Impala actually started moving down the road Sam hissed, "Gotta watch the road, bro."

"Yeah, yeah."

Sam had just moved to grab the steering wheel when Dean finally turned around. The car sped up and they were away. A curve in the road took the last sight of Abby.

They rode in silence, the big Impala taking the twists and turns down Rampart Range Road smoothly. The plan was to pick up the highway and head out in a roughly easterly direction. They'd come up this road just three weeks ago, fuming and so burdened as to be nearly blinded to the world beyond the curb. Their world was a bigger place now.

Sam took in a deep breath. "Wow."

Dean glanced over. "Wow, what?"

"I just never knew what it felt like to leave home for the first time."

"Second time; you were just a baby the first time. But you're right, this is the first one that'll be there for us to come to back to."

Dean shook his head and huffed out a laugh. "Who knew it could feel soooo-damned-good…" His hands on the steering wheel began to tighten along with the muscle in his jaw. Sam braced himself. The leather around the steering wheel squeaked in complaint then the end of Dean's thought exploded out in rush. "… and really FRICKIN' SUCK at the same time!"

Dean sat, jaw clenched shut against further outbursts, eyes on the road, breathing hard.

Sam eased his hands off the dashboard and looked sideways at his brother.

_Wow, again_.

Sam got an idea. He hated to be cruel, but the situation called for extreme measures.

He snapped his fingers as if a brilliant thought had just occurred to him. "Ya know, this whole situation…" Sam glanced at Dean to see if he'd gotten his attention yet. Just barely, Dean's shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch. "… this whole situation is bringin' somethin' to mind." Sam propped his elbow on the edge of the passenger window. He stroked his chin thoughtfully then closed his eyes. His chin began to bounce up and down.

Dean turned his head, a bit of curiosity replacing the torment on his face.

Sam's brows rose up in question. "Homeward Bound?"

"What?"

"Simon and Garfunkel…Homeward Bound." He snapped his fingers again. "Or Rocky Mountain High, John Denver?" Sam grimaced and shook his head. "No, that's not it." He paused thinking again. "I know, Sweet Home Alabama!" He looked over at his brother.

Dean's mouth had gone slack. "Sam those are songs," he managed. "You're not gonna…"

"Maybe Alabama's too close to sea level, huh." Sam ignored Dean's groan. "Uhhhhm…oh here we go…"

Sam cleared his throat.

Dean flinched and managed to keep his hands on the wheel, but raised his right shoulder up to press it against his ear. Sam could _not_ sing. Sam-did-not-sing in enclosed spaces. They'd once used his little brother's voice as part of a ritual that drove a gremlin out of airliner grounded at the Wichita airport.

Sam started the song enthusiastically. "I'm leeevin', on a jet plane. I don't know when I'll be back again. Ooh babe, I haaate, to gooooo…"

"Oh God. Sam, stop! I'm all right now. Sam!" Dean reached desperately for a cassette, any cassette. His fingers closed on one just as Sam started into the chorus again. He jabbed it into the player and hit the play button. AC/DC blasted out of the speakers. Dean cranked it up.

Sam's solo turned into a satisfied grin.

Dean leaned back into his seat with a whooshed out sigh and a grudging smile.

He hit the gas.

_Cue music. Wide shot. Tail end of the Impala speeding down the winding road. Sun a big round ball just above the horizon._

THE END

**AN:** THANK YOU, doesn't seem like quite enough - just those eight, plain, little letters typed there. Imagine them in neon colors…flashing…about eight feet tall…on top of the St. Louis arch. That'll come close to how I feel. You've all been wonerful! If you've read all of Coven and never reviewed, I hope you will now. I'd love to hear if you enjoyed the tale. Take care everybody. Lol – El :)


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